Paying it forward

When I answered my phone recently I heard, “Hi, this is Kim. Gary and I have been picking blueberries in Hatcher Pass this morning and we have more than we need. Could we bring you some?”

A pair of conflicting thoughts tumbled through my mind: “No, we can’t accept such a generous offer two years in a row” and “yes, that would be so wonderful!”

Because of my health issues and our move back to Palmer, I picked not one berry last fall. Now feeling much better, I had certainly considered picking berries and discussed it with my husband, whose name is also Gary, but we hadn’t made any definite plans.

Last fall when Kim and her husband (a good friend of our son’s since high school) dropped in unexpectedly with two large bags of frozen wild blueberries, I was overjoyed. Now, I told Kim that we had eaten all of those berries from last fall; the last two tablespoons used two weeks prior to flavor a bowl of oatmeal.

The line was silent while Kim waited for my reply.

•••

I have been picking berries for as long as I can remember. Growing up in Glennallen, picking berries every fall was just as much a part of life as going to school. The woods out back were full of cranberries and rosehips, and we picked blueberries while out on hunting trips and other excursions.

I still remember the day Mom taught us how to make a batch of jam, only back then we used wax seals. Another time she taught us how to make cranberry muffins. We frequently enjoyed Dad’s blueberry hotcakes on the weekends.

When I was older, I married a berry picker. At the time, I didn’t realize how fortunate that was. He came with cookbooks and several jars of homemade ketchup made out of rose hips, which I thought tasted horrible (but didn’t tell him that until years later).

When we were newly married and living in Fairbanks, I got serious about picking berries and making jams and jellies.

Cases of it!

We gave it to family and friends for Christmas. Out on the Chena Hot Springs road, we lived right next to the best blueberry patch I had ever seen. That’s when I found the blueberry muffin recipe that is still our favorite today. Our standard “company” meal was black bear stew, coleslaw and blueberry muffins. The cranberries were great, too, so I experimented by making my first batch of cranberry juice.

Picking berries continued during our two years living out in California in the mid-1970s. Once while seven months pregnant, we went to a you-pick strawberry farm. Gary had to drag me out of the field. One of his sisters took us up into the hills for blackberries, which were just like our raspberries, only bigger and black. We also picked tiny huckleberries with his mom in the coastal “mountains” on the property where he grew up.

Back in Alaska, we found a different variety of blueberries during our years on the Kenai Peninsula. One year when the cranberries were exceptional, I was tempted to pick for Alaska Wild Berry Products, but with three young ones (two in diapers), finding time to berry pick was a challenge.

Later, after we moved to Palmer in the 1980s, there were enough currants on our property to sell the extras to Alaska Wilderness Gourmet, about $70 worth every fall. This was before the weekly farm markets developed, which have become so popular. One fall during a visit with Dad and Mom in Glennallen, I picked four gallons of cranberries. Mixed with 7-Up, that juice was served at all the special occasions for the next several years.

During those years, I looked forward to blueberry picking excursions in Hatcher Pass and up the Glenn Highway. After Dad and Mom moved to Homer, we tried to plan an annual trip to visit them in mid-August to pick raspberries. Dad’s raspberry patch still produces gallons every year.

Once our kids graduated from high school and were out on their own, we moved yet again.

We moved this time to the little Interior town of Slana, where nearby blueberry picking was fantastic. The berry flavor was more pungent than the Hatcher Pass variety, but also sweeter.

For 11 years, both Gary and I picked every fall; he with his metal-fingered picker while I used both hands. Although the results were about equal, mine were much easier to clean. During the six years we ran a bed and breakfast in our Slana house, blueberry pancakes were a highlight of the morning menu. When we found some guests substituting my spiced blueberry jam for syrup on their pancakes, a new business was born.

I spent hours, days and weeks creating a variety of jams and jellies, which were purchased and taken home with guests from all over the world. During those years, we always had ready-made gifts for any occasion, including weddings. When both our kids married in 2005, wedding guests in Louisiana and Colorado all received a memento of a little 1-ounce jar of spiced blueberry jam made in Alaska. It turns out that spiced blueberry is one of my 6-year-old grandson’s favorite flavors, too.

For so many years, I couldn’t imagine life without berry picking every fall and jam making any time of the year. But things change.

•••

My hesitation vanished with a single sentence carried across the phone line.

“We actually picked some extra with you and Gary in mind,” Kim said.

“Yes,” I replied, all hesitation gone. “We would absolutely love some blueberries.”

Looking back, I know that I, too, have given away handpicked berries on many occasions — blueberries, cranberries, raspberries, currants. Still, it was a struggle to humbly accept such a heartwarming gift. Thanks to Kim and Gary’s generosity, we have blueberries enough to enjoy with oatmeal and ice cream as well as to put in pancakes and muffins. Life is good.

Maraley McMichael is a longtime Mat-Su Valley writer and resident.