by Sr. Joanne Kelly MMM                      Ireland                                     22.09.2024

It is blackberry time.  On the left side of our driveway there is a whole bank of blackberries at various stages of ripeness, green, red, and black and many traces of where birds or insects have already feasted from the juicy fruit.

They bring me back to the time when we were children.  We picked blackberries during the whole season.  Near to us was Fruitfield factory which made all kinds of jam, including blackberry jam.  So blackberry picking, as well as something we loved doing, was a business for us.  It was wartime and money was scarce and my mother promised the money would be used to buy us new shoes for the winter.

One year the older ones of us went picking, our little brother was too small.  Many children in the countryside were picking.  We were only allowed to pick from any public hedges, along the roads and from our own fields.  We had tin cans with tight fitting lids bought from the travelling people who made them and came around selling.  They were ideal for blackberries as no drop of juice would be lost.  Juice had weight and we were paid by the weight.

Every day we set out after school with our cans and a long stick with a fork on it to pull down those beyond our reach.  The fruits had to be picked gently as they broke up so easily.  So we really had to get into the bushes and briars, getting scrapes and scratches, with hands bleeding at times.  There was competition to see who would be first to fill their can.  However we eventually helped each other so that we all came home with full cans if possible.  The fruit was then emptied into buckets, careful to wait for every possible drop of juice to fall!  Then the cans were thoroughly washed ready for the next day.  Once a week a van came from the factory, collected our blackberries, weighed them and paid us accordingly.  My mother held the money, but we counted it every week to see how we were doing.
In time the season passed and the shoes were bought for those of us going to school.

Mam promised our youngest brother he would get his shoes “out of the pigs”. There is no regular income in a small farm and the next time money would come in would be when the pigs were sold.

So some weeks later it was time for the pigs to go. My dad had bought them as piglets early in the year and they were now big and fat and ready for the market. There was no abattoir near us then, so the pigs had to be killed and thoroughly prepared. There were 10 pigs so the butcher, Paddy, came at 8am and worked all day. Each pig was first stunned, then killed, scraped, cleaned and washed inside and out. Edible parts were set aside and everything else disposed of. My little brother was fascinated by the whole procedure and watched Paddy all day. By evening the pigs were all hanging high on strong branches of a big tree, to drip overnight. Next day they would go to a depot to be thoroughly assessed and examined and my dad would be paid accordingly.

But that evening our house was buzzing. With no electricity or fridges, the edible parts of the innards had to be shared. Each of us was sent out with parcels so that we, and all our neighbours, had fresh liver for tea. That in wartime was a real treat!

But my small brother was not so happy. He had watched all day and there were no shoes in the pigs!