Mulberry May

a nostalgic urban exploration

My fingers were stained a deep dark merlot. They were nearly black. I scraped my knee getting up the concrete retaining wall. The sting was a pain I haven’t felt in a long while. An electric reminder of shorts and childhood. Fortunately I had an empty coffee cup I could use as a receptacle. Behind me Birdie sat in the car eagerly looking out the window. For a moment I was worried I had rolled down the window too much, that she might jump out. Then I remembered her seat belt was on. And that she’s too sheepish to jump even if it wasn’t. So I turned back to the task at hand.

The spot was on a surprisingly quiet street given that it butted up against the interstate. A giant metal wall somehow acted as a sound barrier between the highway and the life happening on the other side of it. Quaint bungalows, whose residents carry a bohemian vibe, lined the street. It was an hour before dusk and I was picking mulberries.

I hadn’t planned on picking mulberries that evening. Bird and I were just going out for a walk through one of my favorite places in Atlanta: Oakland Cemetery. The lush greenery radiates a calm that’s hard to find in this city. I took a winding way to get there from my house, using only side streets. While snaking my way to the cemetery I noticed the unmistakable sign of perfectly ripe, burstable, pickable mulberries - concrete sidewalk and street littered with black stains and dark bulbous somethings. My heart leapt.

Picking mulberries will forever and always make me think of growing up in south city St. Louis. May always brought mulberries. The unassuming trees were easy to overlook during every other time of year. They were green and weeping and looked like most other trees. Nothing special. Until May arrived. Suddenly those invisible trees jumped out taking center stage. They seemed to be shouting, “look at me, look at me, and all that I can do!”

At my mom’s insistence, or maybe my own, a few of us would grab some containers and head out foraging. We could walk in any direction around Lafayette Square Park and easily find trees. Some were next to the highway, some out in front of neighbors’ yards, some lining the park. Once we found a good tree we’d settle in and start the picking. The berries hid under the belly of the leaf and the ripest ones fell right off with hardly a touch. Before long our tupperware and mixing bowls and plastic baggies would be filled to the brim. I’m sure just as many went into my mouth as went into my container, if not more. And double that usually ended up on the ground. Then we’d lazily stroll home before it got dark, basking in our urban scavenger status. Within a few days Mom would make a pie or two because what else does one do with several pounds of mulberries. Whatever she didn’t bake we would eat at our leisure. A little treat whenever the fridge opened up.

As I found myself picking berries on the side of highway earlier this week, I was reminded just why those childhood memories are so meaningful. In those moments we were together and present. I mean truly present with one another. There were no cell phones we could take with us. No photography. No form of technology mediated the experience. It was always a spontaneous excursion. Whoever was at home used whatever was around to hunt the sweet delights that our neighborhood willingly offered up. It was also during that delicious time of year where school is nearly done, winter is almost faded away into memory, and summer waits just around the corner. It’s a gloriously warm spell of longer days and walks through the park and weekend barbecues. It was the harbinger of the unbridled freedom and exploration to come.

On one level I thought it would be fun to make a mulberry pie with berries I stumbled upon after taking my dog for a walk. Free food is always a gift. On another level I was hoping that some part of my being, the child me, would wake up and come along for this spontaneous scavenger hunt. Maybe he, in all his youthful excitement and youthful innocence, could offer me a brief taste of those delicious childhood memories. And, you know what, I think he did.