Raspberry jam on toast — a treat to the tongue; raspberry jelly — a ruby jewel; raspberry syrup drizzled on pancakes — perfection; raspberry pie — divine.

At the rear of my lot sits a cabin.

Originally it sat where my house is now, home to one of Harlem’s original families.  At present it houses garden tools and junk.  Since my only tools consist of trowel, shovel, rake, pitchfork, and two hand-held whickerwhackers, the cabin mostly holds junk.

Its chief purpose is to provide a backdrop for my raspberry patch, for the ground on its east side is thick with berry vines.  With my blessing they are encroaching around to the north.

To pick the fruit of the raspberry vine is not a venture for the faint of heart.  While the raspberry does not exactly have vicious thorns like blackberry, nor daggers long and sharp enough to amputate a limb like the buffalo berry, they do have a fuzzy sort of stickers which dig into my fingers and cause irritating pain whenever I touch anything.  I’m not sure if they ever come out or they just dissolve and become part of my personality.

Protective clothing is essential.  I armor myself with heavy jeans, a longsleeved shirt and one glove.  I wear it on the hand which swoops the vines up and back so my ungloved fingers can harvest the delectable fruit.  I spray liberally with mosquito dope.  Some days I need a hard hat to fend off the dive-bomber birds who live in my yard and think my fruit is their fruit.  Since I have no choice but to share, I simply remind them, with an emphatic wave of my hand, to buzz off.

Oh, boots.  Did I mention boots?  I wear boots in case of snake attack.

Specifically rattlesnakes.  I know snakes like to hide under the shade of bushes and my raspberries are thick and brushy.  I’ve not seen one yet, but there’s always the first time.  I try to be tolerant of wildlife, but snakes test my tolerance.  Actually, they terrify me.

Do I always dress like this when picking raspberries?  Well, no.  Usually when the berries are ripe, by six o’clock in the morning the thermometer reads 90 degrees and rising.  If it is too durn hot, I take my chances, dump the outfit, my only protection my formidable tongue.

I firmly believe that snakes don’t want to see me any more than I want to see them.  I don’t know if snakes have ears, but I figure if I talk loudly, they will feel the vibrations of my voice and slither under the cabin until the danger (me) is past.  When I remember, I wear my bear bells.  So every morning I barge into the bushes, my blue colander in hand, and proclaim my presence, vociferously voicing whatever thoughts are on my mind.

This is not easy.  You try to keep up a running chat with berry bushes for an hour.  Day after day.  Until your fingers pluck the last berry from this year’s prolific crop.

If you and I are having a conversation, Dear Friend, I never run out of things to say.  That is because we each contribute thoughts, opinions and ideas.  I can talk hour after hour after hour.  Furthermore, in my interior monologue, I have no problem.  My mind is my own best entertainment.

My thought conversations never bore me.  But out loud and alone in nature my tongue shipwrecks on my teeth.

Only by reminding myself of the lethal nature of fang and claw can I keep talking.  Typically I begin with my plans for the day.  That takes about two minutes.  So I enlarge upon them, invent details that I have no intention of following.  Then I might compliment my rhubarb.  How impressive it looks this year.  Surely it is the royalty of the garden.  This takes up another two minutes.

I continue with paeans to the beauty of the day (cliche), the current state of the nation (depressing), songs from childhood (I remember all the words), poems (verse and worse), dreams (they play better at night) and ad-libbing favorite scenes from movies and plays (I bask in the applause).

Repetitive?  Boring?  Nonsensical?

Admittedly.  And I have not gleaned half the berry patch.

By this point, my fear of being overheard by the neighbors is greater than my fear of snakebite.  My throat is tired.  I am parched.  So I eat a handful of berries and silently strip the ripe little globes from the vines.  I day-dream about how much pleasure this elegant fruit will give me this winter, when snow is 5 feet deep around the cabin and icicles hang from the eaves.

(Sondra Ashton graduated from Harlem High in 1963 and left for good.

She finds, after recently returning, things now look a bit different.  Join her in a discussion of her column at http:// montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com.)