The Mountain Laurel
The Journal of Mountain Life

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from the
Heart of the Blue Ridge

First Jam

By Diana J. Felts © 1990

Issue: July, 1990

She was a provident woman
None eaten until some were canned.
He liked them fine
Picked warm off the vine.
He was a get it now man.
Each year when the berries were turnin'
They'd argue a while on the stoop
She'd hand him a pail
Which he'd hang on a nail
Then off to the woods he would troop.
He needed no bucket, his harvest
Not destined for conserve or jelly.
He'd go to the patch,
Pick quite a large batch
And carry it home
In his belly.
Then how she would rail
When she saw him
His mustache dyed purple
Not part of his repertoire, sadly
A pie eating grin on his face!
"You did it again!" She'd admonish
He'd try very hard to look sad.
His head would drop down
As he searched for a frown
And he'd look like a hound
Who'd been bad.
Then she'd go out alone,
Do the pickin'
Eating nary a berry herself,
Lug home a large bucket
Of fruit and with luck, it
Might make it up onto the shelf.
His way and hers, how they differed
Yet somehow, they both got the goods.
Which one of them, say,
Did the youngens at play
Go followin' into the woods?