Cranberry Day through the years

This year I celebrated six decades around the sun, and what does that mean when thinking about Cranberry Day through the years? First of all, what is Cranberry Day? Wampanoag people celebrate Cranberry Day as a harvest celebration of all of the bounty of summer. 

I am sure that, like many things, we don’t know when the first celebration was held, but we do intuitively understand why. For Aquinnah, cranberries were a staple crop foraged in our wild bogs, and this day celebrates the last of the harvest. Many of my elders have told me stories of waiting to get a ride to the bogs with Jack Belain, in his cart led by a team of oxen. Jack, along with many others, would actually spend nights on the bogs to bring in as many cranberries as possible, because of their importance to our community. To be there as the sun rose, from first light to last light, was as important to our people as a source of food. While much of the harvest was sold or traded to bring in other material goods, as a way to bring wealth into our community, this was still a sustenance food for our people, even before “scientific proof” about antioxidants. 

What we knew was that the well-being of our community was tied up in these bright red fall berries. Cranberries holed up in a root cellar, or dried and put in pemmican, give us energy, and they hold the sweet taste so well served as corn cranberry stuffing or as a sauce to enhance goose, duck, rabbit, or venison. Understandably, they are celebrated, as they are often the highlight of any meal during the fall and winter seasons.

As a child, I remember my elders taking me to the bogs to hand-pick the berries. Many of my tribal family and friends would go down to the bogs. The matriarchs would often have antique scoops, made of wood with long tines, to remove the berries from the vines, lifting them through the reeds to float on the surface, working them fastidiously through the long grasses and plants to fill their baskets with what seemed like ease. I would look at the large baskets and be inspired to pick faster, to fill my own small container. 

The mornings were cool and the bogs were a soggy place; my own rain boots were often insufficient, so I pulled on hip boots so that the water wouldn’t go over and get my socks all wet. As the sun rose high into the sky, often we were free to just go barefoot, so most of us abandoned our boots and waited for the fire. This same fire, prepared just right by noon, would find my family giving thanks and having picnics with our people. Sitting in the warmth of the sun, hearing stories and laughter, the world was everything just there in that protected space.

In the afternoon there were always a few elders teaching how to make the dark jelly or relishes for the long winter ahead. Later that evening, the entire community held a potluck feast to share foods from the harvest, with tribal drummers singing the chants from long ago. The final dance is called a circle dance: Everyone is holding hands and following the lead singers, who wind us on a journey of dance together; often, this dance is long, and some people may drop out and re-enter. We keep dancing, ending in a tight spiral gathered together, everyone singing out in a high pitch. Laughter and smiles break our chain of hands, and now we are returning to our homes with nourished bodies and souls. 

Returning as a young woman with my two children, I watched my elder, Gladis, who must have been 85, going to pick some berries near the side of the bog with a face of determination. All who were there that morning stopped that day to say a greeting and show her respect as she approached the bogs. How comforting it was to see that she was a vessel that held so much knowledge and had earned her place with so many. At that moment I understood that carrying on this tradition was so much more than gathering berries — it was passing on an ancestral tradition. It grounded us in the history of the land and our people. What stories would she have to share with us that day, and how would her stories make us feel? As I look back upon this memory, all I can think about is how special the community is that gives recognition for our elders and to the land.

This year as I go into the bogs, what feelings will surface with the berries? What thoughts will come into mind? Gathering with generations of family together harvesting our final crop of the season. Hoping for an abundant harvest so that I might have enough to share with my family who are not able to come home and harvest for themselves. I hope to tell a few stories myself, to sing and dance in celebration with all present, and the spirits of my ancestors here, in our sheltered land, Aquinnah, as we once again pick the cranberries.