out a large wool cape for the girl, who she knew didn ’t own a coat. “It’s okay to keep it,” she offered. “It belonged to the maid before Sally – she left it.”
Grateful, Katherine took the cape, and they started out on t he beautiful cold sunny morning.
Frieda enjoyed talking, Katherine liked listening, so they made a comfortable pair.
“In New Mexico we didn’t have any maypops,” Katherine volunteered. “What are they like?”
“ Well, they go by a lot of different names. Some call them the passion flower, as they have the stickers like the nails of Jesus when He was crucified, but most call ‘em wild apricots, or granadilla. I call ‘em maypops. Now, keep a close eye.”
Katherine didn ’t know what to look for, so she just followed Frieda, enjoying the beautiful morning.
“ Do you suppose you could call me Kathy?”
“ Why, child, I suppose I could. I never knew you’d want to be called that, but probably as not I’d forget as I’m used to saying Katherine by now.”
The woods were ali ve with small creatures skittering among the fallen leaves searching for nuts and berries as the feel of winter was here. In a grove of bushes Frieda spotted them. “There they are – the maypops!” They went to the thicket where the vine grew ten to twelve feet high, climbing over another bush. Just a few showy lavender flowers were left; on the rest of the vine the flowers had already turned to fruit. The wild apricots, about the size of an egg, had turned yellow from the frost, but some were still pulpy yellow-green. “Try for the yellow ones,” Frieda instructed.
They pulled and yanked on the vines and searched among the three-lobed indented leaves for the maypops. They had soon filled their sacks. “That’s enough,” Frieda said. “Let’s save room. I’m really needin’ some swamp rose.”
They turned direction and headed towards the river.
Enjoying her role as teacher, Frieda instructed: “You can usually find swamp rose by creeks or rivers… We still have a little left in jelly. I’m thinking we need it this winter for the teas.”
Katherine loved Missouri and the abundant fields and woods, so different from the wind-blown, barren landscape where she had grown up. She felt the wonder of nature here, it was so generous. She followed Frieda eagerly; she had already learned so much, and as they walked Frieda told her of the uses for swamp rose. It was used to make tea, jam, jelly, soup – and rose sugar. She talked of how, in the spring, they’d find the roses and dip the petals in whiskey and batter and fry them, then coat them in sugar…a true delicacy. On the banks of Kiefer Creek they saw the rosebushes which grew to about six feet. The leaves were dry from the recent frost, but the rosehips were plentiful – the small, ball-like fruit left where the fragrant roses had been. They filled their sacks and, well satisfied with their day, they started back.
“ There,” Frieda pointed. “But we don’t have room. There, that’s the ginseng – the manroot. Why, when I was a girl, my daddy used to go sang-hunting every fall, and he even tried growing it as a crop, but the cultivated isn’t as good as the wild. The buyers…they don’t hardly want the cultivated.” She paused and knelt down. “You can tell it, it’s different to any other plant. See how gold the leaves look? There ain’t anything in the world that has that color. Look, Katherine – study it so’s you’ll know it. It grow in dark places like this…manroot don’t like the sun. It never grows taller than two feet and it has a cluster of five leaves.” Frieda touched the leaves with a wonder. “Some folks when I was little dreamed of making a fortune with it. My daddy knew a man that did. He hunted and hunted, pert near cleared out all the hollows, and they said he moved to a big house in Chicago.”
“ It sounds like treasure-hunting!”
“ Oh it is, child. It is.”
They enjoyed the crisp, cold
Grateful, Katherine took the cape, and they started out on t he beautiful cold sunny morning.
Frieda enjoyed talking, Katherine liked listening, so they made a comfortable pair.
“In New Mexico we didn’t have any maypops,” Katherine volunteered. “What are they like?”
“ Well, they go by a lot of different names. Some call them the passion flower, as they have the stickers like the nails of Jesus when He was crucified, but most call ‘em wild apricots, or granadilla. I call ‘em maypops. Now, keep a close eye.”
Katherine didn ’t know what to look for, so she just followed Frieda, enjoying the beautiful morning.
“ Do you suppose you could call me Kathy?”
“ Why, child, I suppose I could. I never knew you’d want to be called that, but probably as not I’d forget as I’m used to saying Katherine by now.”
The woods were ali ve with small creatures skittering among the fallen leaves searching for nuts and berries as the feel of winter was here. In a grove of bushes Frieda spotted them. “There they are – the maypops!” They went to the thicket where the vine grew ten to twelve feet high, climbing over another bush. Just a few showy lavender flowers were left; on the rest of the vine the flowers had already turned to fruit. The wild apricots, about the size of an egg, had turned yellow from the frost, but some were still pulpy yellow-green. “Try for the yellow ones,” Frieda instructed.
They pulled and yanked on the vines and searched among the three-lobed indented leaves for the maypops. They had soon filled their sacks. “That’s enough,” Frieda said. “Let’s save room. I’m really needin’ some swamp rose.”
They turned direction and headed towards the river.
Enjoying her role as teacher, Frieda instructed: “You can usually find swamp rose by creeks or rivers… We still have a little left in jelly. I’m thinking we need it this winter for the teas.”
Katherine loved Missouri and the abundant fields and woods, so different from the wind-blown, barren landscape where she had grown up. She felt the wonder of nature here, it was so generous. She followed Frieda eagerly; she had already learned so much, and as they walked Frieda told her of the uses for swamp rose. It was used to make tea, jam, jelly, soup – and rose sugar. She talked of how, in the spring, they’d find the roses and dip the petals in whiskey and batter and fry them, then coat them in sugar…a true delicacy. On the banks of Kiefer Creek they saw the rosebushes which grew to about six feet. The leaves were dry from the recent frost, but the rosehips were plentiful – the small, ball-like fruit left where the fragrant roses had been. They filled their sacks and, well satisfied with their day, they started back.
“ There,” Frieda pointed. “But we don’t have room. There, that’s the ginseng – the manroot. Why, when I was a girl, my daddy used to go sang-hunting every fall, and he even tried growing it as a crop, but the cultivated isn’t as good as the wild. The buyers…they don’t hardly want the cultivated.” She paused and knelt down. “You can tell it, it’s different to any other plant. See how gold the leaves look? There ain’t anything in the world that has that color. Look, Katherine – study it so’s you’ll know it. It grow in dark places like this…manroot don’t like the sun. It never grows taller than two feet and it has a cluster of five leaves.” Frieda touched the leaves with a wonder. “Some folks when I was little dreamed of making a fortune with it. My daddy knew a man that did. He hunted and hunted, pert near cleared out all the hollows, and they said he moved to a big house in Chicago.”
“ It sounds like treasure-hunting!”
“ Oh it is, child. It is.”
They enjoyed the crisp, cold
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