I have known many
who talk of pie
truth be told
none is as good
or tasty like Grandma's
Huckeleberry Pie.
Cold winds blew
the rich folk stole the farm
No longer could Grandma Ann
pick the fruit of gold
Banned from the swamp
Huckleberry Pie
Paw Paw fruits smell
Apple Trees and Cherries fell
It was a cold winter that year
Last, oh the last berries frozen gone
Unable to make, grandma cried
No more Huckleberry Pie.
Long ago Grandma's death came
We talked of her famous pie
Around her casket of pine.
Whispers of a plan
angry heads agree
Soon it will be time.
Under a moon we stalk
my people, hunters dare.
To steal the tasty fruit
cover of dark, the swamp we go
Huckleberry's. Oh Huckleberry Pie!
I have her recipe book.
Bread, preserves, canning and more
On a special page it waits
Her beautiful write lays there
One more time we will share.
Foolish rich, the rednecks say
all this, we will steal, a game to play
Dad will roll out the dough
Brother and cousins will stalk
As conductor, the symphony I blend
Flour, sugar, scant spice dance
Oven at 350, scents of the old farm drift
A toast to our Grandma Ann
Her food, her 5 sons and grandchildren toast
Old neighbors and friends too
On the counter lay
One thing we all agree
With her, was the best forever
Huckleberry Pie.
The story.
When we were kids we tramped all the farms in the area. Hunting, fishing, berry picking our little part of the county. The rich people came and stole the farm next door. Double talk and promises all lies. For the first time ever in a 100+ years our family was not allowed to pick the natural Huckleberries that grew in the swamp behind the woods. The place we always found Indian pottery and relics. They still walk in the mists there I will add. Banned. I found my Grandma sitting at the table with tears on here cheeks. The new owners had yelled at her for still being on her property. Buckets in hand. This kind Quaker woman very upset.
Still, you can not break old iron easy.
No matter how we asked they would not let us pick the berries. In time they tried to
land grab other farms. Big
city people. So educated, rotten to the core. She had
enough in the freezer for more pies. I remember the last pies. She had saved them for Christmas. I could have cared less about the shirts and underwear we got. Tonight was a special treat. Around the tree we all stood or sat and ate the last Huckleberry Pie she would ever make. Even my Mom was misty eyed. She did not get along to well with my Grandma, but she was still a good woman and understood. Something very special had come to pass and it would never be the same again. We all ate our pie, friends and neighbors also that Christmas Eve night. Long ago.
After she died I promised the family we would once again make her pies.
At the risk of felonies and police action I can not say HOW we got berries. I will not say WHERE. Or WHO we got them from. The berries were waiting for us. Picked. Frozen for latter that year. On the old Minnesota Sewing machine and table cloth she left me, along with the recipe book that was hers I also have, the many pies sat. Enough berries were had.
Opening day of hunting season we had a early dinner,
deer hanging in the
yard. We sat around and ate the pies. Not much comes close to Huckleberry Pie and
coffee from the kettle. The pies NOT near as good as hers. But they were still very good. More than once a toast was raised to her and Grampa. Times have changed. Still, many stopped by for a sliver of pie and to talk hunting and whatever. My Uncle now owns that farm and house she and my Grandpa lived in. Everyone has moved on. We still own property around there. Once my family owned most of this part of the county. No matter. Everyone still talks about her special Huckleberry Pie.
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