Ditch Berries

cold fingers and my favourite tradition

Last week my sister and I drove to the Northumberland Strait to closed down our cottage before winter properly set in. I pulled sheets off sandy beds and stuffed them inside a duvet cover creating a big Santa bag of soft, summery, salty presents. We wiped the bottom drawer of the fridge, clearing away sand left over from the beer cans that had travelled from the beach, then back to the fridge again. We put rice, pasta and jars of peanut butter into grocery bags and gathered them in the car next to the bag of sheets. We brought in the last of the outdoor furniture, double checked windows were locked, covered furniture with old sheets, confirmed the water was turned off and gave the floor one last sweep. Before we officially locked up, I grabbed the clippers from hook by the door. We had spotted winterberries - ilex verticillata - along the edge of the Sunrise Trail. I usually spot these berries while driving - a blur of red against the greens and browns of winter - just off an overpass, down a deep ditch, or a few meters inside an impenetrable forest. There’s a moment where I imagine pulling over, scissor-kicking a guard rail and tumbling into a tangle of branches, scissors in hand. But I almost always drive on, hoping I’ll find a more accessible patch later in my travels.

But this weekend is Aunt Susan’s annual wreath-making gathering. Susan provides the dehydrated slices of citrus and the rolls of thin green wire. She provides copious cups of tea, a silver tray covered with peanut butter balls¹, piles of spruce and pine boughs and baskets of rosehips. She provides the music, the conversation, the inspiration and the memories. My youngest sister flies in from Vancouver for the annual event with juniper boughs in her suitcase! The least I can do is contribute a few branches of ilex.

So on our way home, my sister and I pulled over where we remembered seeing the patch of red. The rain was coming down, soft and damp. I wore a raincoat, the kind that wicks away moisture and leaves you sitting in a puddle. The right side of the car teetered on the edge of the road with just enough room for me to slither out with clippers in my hand. Below was a steep bank of slippery grasses, their vibrant greens of summer now drained to winter beige. I slipped and side-stepped down the bank, landing on a cement culvert gushing with water. A faded beer can sat at my feet. Around me baby pines pushed through the soppy land. An old evergreen laid on its side, a memory from the hurricane a few years before. It looked like I was peering under a hoop skirt made of mossy dirt - private details open to the world. My sister sat in the drivers seat up above. There’s no need for both of us to get wet when there’s only one set of clippers.

I snipped away at the branches with cold fingers. You never take the whole bounty when foraging - a quarter at most. But even an eighth seemed too much that day, too tricky, too wet. I put the branches carefully into a bag as I clipped, trying not snap the wood and lose the berries. It’s precarious work.

Later that afternoon I piled the berries in my backyard. When the sun came out I’d put a few in my window boxes to remind me of the beauty of stopping at the side of the road, then I’d take the rest to Susan’s house. There’s always a chance the starlings will eat them before December arrives. They love gifts from the country as much as we do.

1. The peanut butter ball origin story and recipe (that I’ve shared a million times because it’s the flavour of my childhood) can be found here.