My parade of jams and jellies began last week when the first of about a dozen varieties that will line my pantry by autumn was cooked, poured and labeled.

Rhubarb signals the beginning of yet another jammin’ year that starts in late May and ends in early October when the wild Concord grapes that once climbed nearly to the top of a 200-year-old barn are harvested and made into the last of the season’s sweet spread. The barn collapsed more than 20 years ago, leaving a granite foundation and lots of manure that continues to feed the grapes.

The jars, of all shapes and sizes, are lined up neatly with personalized, colorful labels. So far, there’s the dull green with an occasional spark of pink rhubarb jam, bright red strawberry jam and pretty subdued pink strawberry/rhubarb jelly.

When I see the bright pink nubbles of the fledgling rhubarb in the backyard patch in mid-spring, my gardening soul jumps in delight. And I have learned that our New England ancestors felt pretty much the same. Rhubarb, known as the pie plant, was the first fresh fruit or vegetable ready to eat after a long, cold winter.

Whether I make strawberry jam in mid- or late-June, it always seems to be during the hottest day of the year. Fans are set up in the kitchen as I lay out each ingredient for the jam-making session – hulled and crushed strawberries from a local farm, a quarter cup freshly squeezed lemon juice, granulated sugar, and of course, a pouch or two of pectin. When I started making jams and jellies more than 35 years ago, that pectin came in a brown glass bottle. A recipe requiring a half bottle required a quick eye and hand to make sure only a half-bottle was poured into the boiling mixture at the critical time. Pouches, each containing just the right amount of pectin, are so much easier, but most of the recipes I use come from a yellowed, juice-stained leaflet that was once packed with the pectin. It contains recipes for “old” jellies, like wild elderberry and chokecherry.

I’ve made jelly and jam without pectin and had good luck, but several hours are needed to very slowly cook while constantly stirring the fruit mixture with the sugar, and the yield is less than half of that made with pectin.

Making jams and jellies from “old” berries and fruits is probably the most satisfying. Elderberries, those tiny, purple berries that grow in clusters on bushes often found adjacent to streams and other wet areas are puckery beyond tolerance when eaten off the bush. But add sugar and elderberry jelly becomes my favorite and the favorite of many others of a certain age. I think the flavor of elderberries is an acquired taste that must be nurtured when young.

My mother always made elderberry jelly, using berries from a huge bush that once grew beside the old carriage house. Maples, brush and years overwhelmed the bush, and now I must forage for the berries wherever I can find them.

With building development prevalent throughout the area, many bushes have been destroyed, so my search for the berries growing on these very inconsequential-looking bushes becomes more and more difficult. I am now trying to grow my own, but by the time they are ready to produce fruit, it won’t be me, but the next generation who will reap the harvest.

As the summer progresses, I search for locally grown peaches, wild chokecherries, sometimes blackberries and raspberries, and of course, wild Maine blueberries. For neophyte jam makers, never use the large, cultivated blueberries. They are great for snacking on, but the flavor and texture don’t measure up in jam.

Just before the last batch of jelly is made is the all-important apple. I sometimes use a few of the old-fashioned Wealthies still growing on the last of what was once an orchard in our field that is now all grown up with maples and pines. But most of the apples, as red as I can find, come from a local orchard. And they must be McIntosh.

Apple jelly is the most beautiful of all the jellies and jams. When the cooked and crushed fruit is allowed to drip very slowly through a cheesecloth, or in my case, remnant of a old sheer curtain, the results are dazzling – crystal clear, pink jelly that sparkles when held up to the sun.

And when each batch is complete and lined up on the counter, whether it is apple jelly or peach jam, my heart dances with delight and pride.

Most will be given as gifts, with specific varieties earmarked for the friend or relative who enjoys a particular flavor. Some will be put on display in the local agricultural fair, and some will be used at our kitchen table or for making desserts.

Ah, the jelly-making season. A way to connect with the earth and a way to stay connected to our ancestors.