In 1962, John Casler was accepted into Harvard University. Charles Haushalter, John's grandfather, would die peacefully in his sleep on the farm in October of 1963. But before he passed, he gave his grandson one last gift: a large part of the funding for a college education. 

Charles and John spent the springs and early summers of those last few years of Charlie's on the farm growing, harvesting and selling strawberries to make sure that John would have enough money to attend a good college. They set up a roadside stand on Gowanda State Road, right between their two homes. While the last two Haushalter farmers saw to the business of the family, John's younger siblings enjoyed those sunny days pelting fallen strawberries at any passersby not intelligent enough to buy their brother's produce.

One of the most delicious things we'd do in the summer when visiting Grandma (June) and Grandpa (Ed) was a hike to the raspberry patch. By the time I was old enough to remember these trips, the fields were pretty overgrown. I think when I was VERY little, the back acreage of the land was still being farmed by someone who leased it, but the front acreage was overgrown. There were no trees, but very tall grasses, and probably weeds, but to me it was beautiful. Absolutely golden in the summer sun, and smelling so good. 

Grandma would take us to their big garage behind the house at 6777 that she and Grandpa had lived in since the 1950s, when they and her parents, Charles and Anna Haushalter, had had the place built for them at the corner of the land on Gowanda State Road on the other side of the field from the original farmhouse. (Charles and Anna were long gone by the time I was born, but the Terryberrys, friends of my grandparents, lived in the old farmhouse.) Grandma would hand out pint cartons and we'd head out to the fields. 

It was hard for my little legs to make their way through the tall grass, but it was only about 300 meters or so across the field heading southeast and then east to get to the place the raspberries grew. My dad told me it's where he and his grandfather, Charles, used to grow strawberries. But when they stopped using it for that, raspberry brambles had taken over. We'd pick as many as we could from the prickly bushes, constantly getting fingers, hair and clothing stuck on the prickers. And of course making a sticky mess of ourselves. 

Honestly, I don't remember ever making anything in particular with the raspberries. I just remember how wonderful they tasted straight off the bushes, still warm from the sun, and the deep wine color the berries stained the little pint containers. The first time I remember making Anna's raspberry pudding was actually in Marblehead, Massachusetts, where I grew up. I thought it was so strange that it was called a pudding. I didn't really know what you WOULD call it, but as an American, the idea that a pudding was baked seemed very strange.