don.farmer@age.co.nz
Vera Lynn was the darling of the forces in World War II but I wonder how she would go singing, "There will be blueberries over the white cliffs of Dover, tomorrow just you wait and see".
No, that is not a spelling mistake in the title line - it is simply a reflection of what is apparently happening in Britain.
Blueberries are taking over, with commercial growers producing enormous amounts of what was once an exotic foreign rarity.
The Brits are reported to be so much in love with the little berry they are turning their backs on their traditional favourites, especially raspberries.
Now that makes me berry, berry sad because with all due respect to blueberries there is no substitute for a rich, red raspberry.
I grew up with raspberries, in fact when my kids were very young and asked where they came from, I never gave the stock reply of being found under a gooseberry bush.
Instead I substituted "gooseberry bush" for "raspberry cane" such was my devotion to raspberries.
In my youth I could devour phenomenal quantities of raspberries and never tire of them.
In summer my hands would be stained red for weeks on end and all because raspberries were the most prolific small fruit crop grown in Wairarapa, especially in Greytown.
Aside from the splendid taste, they were also the main source of income for me and many other youngsters who hired themselves out from mid-November to late January picking raspberries.
We were paid by the pound (this was before metrics) or sometimes on an hourly rate if the picking was a bit patchy, and loyalties to individual growers was paramount.
I "belonged" to Gordon Murphy, a wonderful boss who was not above suggesting I played hooky from school when the flush was on and, thankfully, I had a mum who could occasionally be convinced to sign a sick note for the teacher to allow me to sneak to the orchard and add to my fortune.
The upshot was I was never short of a bob to spend over summer, as became apparent when halftime at the Saturday night pictures came along.
Kids who were pickers would have folding stuff in their wallets, returning to the picture theatre with an armful of treats from the dairy. Those who were not, survived on a single water ice block.
More important than providing money for junk food from the dairy, the picking plots taught kids lifelong lessons which are just as apt today as they were then.
Such as how to get out of bed early in the morning and get cracking with the work in hand. Such as how to fend for yourself financially and how to develop the work ethic.
Don't get me wrong, it was not all work and no play. Just the opposite, in fact.
The picking plots were great for social interaction and sometimes resembled the cotton fields of the Mississippi delta, with kids singing, conducting quizzes as they worked, telling jokes or whatever.
And all this was down to the humble raspberry.
Sadly, raspberries on a commercial basis have all but disappeared from much of Wairarapa, I suspect because of climate change and possibly other factors.
But those of us who are sufficiently devoted to the delightful red berries soldier on by growing our own, thereby retaining a link to those glorious days of our youth.