Burnt Wienie worthy: A berry big jam

Nominee: Ed Sprick (winner!)
Nominator: Anna Sprick Smith
Year: 1975

Berry Pickin' Bachelor Brother Bombs Birdland

What caused a mild-mannered fish-pickling expert, walleye fisherman extraordinaire and sometime bird-watcher to suddenly this summer turn against those featherly flying creatures he so recently had watched and mimicked?

It all started with a poor strawberry season. Then the Millers went East on vacation and the mischief began. Edward began picking their raspberries. Other family members intercepted his activities and tried to distract him with bass fishing -- to no avail.

He soon was spied carrying gallons of buckets of black raspberries to those who would reach out in weakness.

Then he recruited co-conspirators Alverna, Anna and Joe Kirkwood, who did not realize to what extent the passion had progressed. Together at Waldesruh they picked buckets of blueberries for the home freezers.

In mid-August, when the jars and freezers and Sure-Jell and patience and time and desire were all used up, this gentle soul turned tyrant began to disappear into the deep woods near the nursery. Grinning, he would emerge with gallons of blackberries, black caps, huckleberries -- whatever. He would descend on weary sisters, lady friends and his aged mother in hopes that they would prepare the stolen fruit.

Yes, stolen! For our feathered friends preparing themselves for that autumn trek to warmer lands found no berries. They flew from patch to patch. No berries! Occasionally a starving bird would fly too low over a supermarket and with dazed eyes note a "No lids" sign and know the frustration of housewives that summer.

Mother Sprick, attempting to humor the bird-bombing, berry-picking bachelor, turned out pies and passed them on in brown paper bags to less talented members of the family.

Sister Anna realized the seriousness of the berry virus when she overheard Edward, who had just picked 5 gallons of the (whatever) berry, asking, "Tuck, what'll it take to get you to help me pick tomorrow at 7 a.m.?" Innocent Tuck, whose bank account had been depleted by a trip to Washington, D.C., and the Gould strike in Lake City, agreed to this dastardly rendezvous in the berry patch by declaring that he could be bought for 50 cents.

Meanwhile, back in the hot kitchens, recipients of the berries ran from door to door. "What are they?" "What do you do with them?" "Uncle Henry says they are blackberries." "Al says they are boysenberries." "How much sugar do you use?" "Can I borrow a few jars?" "No! They're full of pickled fish." "Sorry, I can't eat anything seedy." "Gosh, Grandma's pie is good!"

Where will it end? said the birds. Enough, already! We are starving! We've been forced to eat the Culex tarsalia mosquito, and we'll surely fall asleep on our journey southward!

Will the birds ever return to Waldesruh, Frontenac and Lake City? Will the family eat anything this winter but berries? Will Edward ever say, "Ich habe mein Nase voll"? Will ulcers be aggravated and will more ulcers develop?

Surely this travesty on nature is worthy of the Burnt Wienie Award. I speak for the birds when I state that all who vote accordingly will be given a sample jar of special blackberry or you-name-it jam.