Lately I’ve been mulling over Galatians 5:22-23  “The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” I’ve been trying to find the spirit of gentleness in everything I do, including being gentle with my writing thoughts. Hence the tie-in to raspberries, because when you pick, wash or simply eat a raspberry you need to apply a trace of pressure, a tad of pinch, but always a careful gentleness.  As I gave way to this “raspberry release” and let my ideas slowly surface, this tumbled forth:

Oh raspberries you wondrous delight! 
Tempting me from your cushioned carton,
Come and enjoy each and every bite!
Pink-purple hues energizing me,
My fingers red-tinged but so tasty!
Raspberries, dear friends from long ago,
Filling up pails for Nana’s big show! 
Always hers to display, hers to tempt,
Eating her custard pies, so content!
Oh raspberries, so fragile but dear,
Grace me with memories drawing near.

As September slowly winds down this week, I continue to water our newly planted raspberry patch in our backyard.  I can picture the transported roots stretching eagerly through the soil as the gentle warmth of these Indian summer days has encouraged them to reach out and nestle in their new abode.  Perhaps they may generate growth next year, perhaps they will remain dormant gaining strength for the time when they will exude enough energy to burst forth and create beautiful berries.

I look forward to the day when I might arm my grandchildren with small buckets sending them to pick the ripened fruit.  I fondly recall my younger days when I would skip through the rows of laden branches that were neatly wound around fence rails at my grandparent’s.

“Don’t eat too many or your tummy will hurt, “ Nana would warn as she gave me a pail to fill.

With stained fingers and lips I would return with my bounty, hoping she was wrong with her prediction.  I wanted to feel good so that I could be the first one to taste her custard pies.  Nearly 50 years later, the scent of baked egg custard sprinkled with nutmeg wafts around me.

As the local berry season surely draws to a close, I am thankful that a small carton full of pink-purple hues has brought back my Nana’s smiles to me.  I see her bustling about her kitchen, her smock apron tied neatly in place.  She has rolled out circles of pie dough in anticipation of the pails I will fill.  She’s rubbing her floured hands on her apron as she laughingly welcomes me back from my picking chore.

“Ach those look gut!  Watch don’t make them all!” I hear her Pennsylvania Dutch phrases as the backdrop for my memories.