Free That Wild Berries Should Grow by Gloria Whelan Page A

she brought her mother’s nail polish, and we put it on our nails. The color is Pink Passion. She says Tommy likes me, which is the most disgusting thing I ever heard.

Grandmother
    I shadow her, surprised
    at what her clever hands can do ,
    thankful for her silence ,
    for sometimes when she speaks
    her words are sour as
    green apples .
    She scrubs the sheets
    in rainwater
    and spreads them on the lawn
    to bleach, a field of snow
    beneath the summer sun .
    Her pansies pool
    in deep blue lakes
    while lilies sweep above
    like soaring gulls
    and waves of sweet alyssum
    lap the ground .
    She gathers fruit
    and traps it
    in glass jars, rows
    of red and yellow lanterns
    glowing on the pantry shelves .
    Her bread dough swells
    and puffs and browns
    to perfect loaves ,
    for everything
    my grandmother touches
    with her hands
    undoes her angry words .
    Grandmama has been in an angry mood for two days. This morning she scolded me when she saw the Pink Passion polish on my nails. She snapped at Grandpapa when he was late for breakfast. I don’t know why she’s so cross. I was about to disappear down into the gully to keep out of her way when I remembered my mother telling me to watch my grandmama’s hands. Instead of running off, I decided to spend the day following Grandmama.
    She started out in the kitchen making bread dough. White clouds flew up into the air as she shook the flour into a bowl. She stirred so hard the bowl skittered around the table. As she kneaded the dough, she picked it up and slapped it down against the pastry board as if she were angry with it. Finally she threw a towel over it and set it on the warm part of the stove to raise.
    It was washing day. Grandmama dipped pails full of water out of the rain barrel. She strained out the little bugs that hatch in the water and boiled it on the stove. When she put soap into it, the suds exploded into foamy bubbles that caught the sun. She emptied some of the sudsy water into a small pan and let me wash the napkins and doilies. She put the washboard into her bucket and scraped the clothes up and down on the board until I thought they would fall apart. They went through the ringer not once or twice but three times! We spread out our washing on the grass where the sun would make it white.
    After the wash was done, it was time for the garden. She seemed really angry at the little tufts of green she was yanking out of the flower beds. I asked her what they were. “Crabgrass and chickweed,” she said. I saved both of the words.
    In the kitchen the bread dough grew until it pushed up the clean white towel that covered it. Grandmama shaped the dough into loaves and let it rise again. Then it went into the oven, and the whole house smelled of fresh baked bread.
    After lunch we all picked peaches. I picked the ones on the lowest limbs of the trees. Grandmama reached up into the branches. Grandpapa stood on a stepladder. “Handle the fruit gently,” he said. “Peaches bruise easily.” One by one we lay the fragrant fruit into a bushel basket. When all the ripe peaches were picked, Grandpapa carried the basket into the kitchen. Grandmama boiled up a kettle of sugar syrup. By dinnertime two dozen jars of gold fruit were lined up on the kitchen table.
    We had thick slices of the fresh bread with our dinner. For dessert we ate the peaches that were too ripe to can. The peach juice ran down our chins, and we all laughed. Whatever had made Grandmama angry in the morning had disappeared into the clean clothes and the bread and the garden and the jars of perfect peaches.

That Wild Berries Should Grow
    That wild berries should grow
    and fling their thorny shoot
    above your head and jail you
    while you steal their fruit ,
    that they should let you go .
    I picked blackberries with Grandmama today. I was used to picking raspberries and gooseberries in the garden, but the blackberries grow way at the back of the field. Raspberries and gooseberries grow in