Wineberry

Some 40 years ago, I lived on Jamestown, an island in Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay. It was a splendid place to be, and one of its many glories was a patch of wineberries that grew in front of the small cottage I called home. When the beautifully colored fruit was ripe, I'd get up early to try to beat the local catbirds, jays, and occasional neighbors to the harvest. I loved the taste of the fruit, but the berries are too delicate to be in commerce, so you have to either know where to forage, or raise a patch of wineberries yourself, if you're going to enjoy them. Alas, they don't grow wild around here and my land is too shady for wineberries to thrive. I haven't run into them for years. But on a walk through the Stewart McKinney Refuge in Westbrook, CT, I noticed an old friend. It was a bit tricky, since my eyes, dilated for a glaucoma test, were still having trouble focusing. But good memories are hard to lose, and clearly, I hadn't forgotten how to enjoy the plants. I hadn't forgotten that at all.