Blackberries and Yesterday

Some time ago, before herbicides, global warming, and UV rays were part of our vernacular, my mom would take us blackberry picking. This summer ritual was always spontaneous and arbitrary, like almost everything in my childhood summers of “Dick and Jane.” The idea would start at the beginning of a hot, slow afternoon in early June, and somehow my mom would recognize it as a great day for berry picking. I’d immediately fill our armored ice chest that was once my grandfather’s with fat ice cubes from an aluminum tray and “fresh” cold water from the tap, all the while snatching buckets and buckets and a neighborhood kid. Then we all piled into the truck, rolled down the windows and got out. It was all that fast. No fuss, no attention to detail, no cell phone to remember, just grab your red hat and go, seizing the moment and capturing the memory.

I have no idea where we were going on those spontaneous summer days; I was young and I didn’t care. I do remember that the bushes grew profusely along the country roads, near the pastures where brown-eyed cows and clumsy-looking egrets grazed and gleaned and the day was long and we were happy. Yellow butterflies fluttered over the grassy fields of dandelions and buttercups and if we stayed out there a bit at night, fireflies lit up the shadows like diamonds. The fences where the berries grew were barbed wire and our clothes were ripped apart, but that didn’t matter because the best berries were always on the other side. Sometimes we also met other families in the fields picking berries. Guess good berry picking days weren’t a secret.

The only concern my mom had was snakes. I don’t think we’ve ever seen one, but we did see a lot of “snake spitting” on these berry picking excursions. “Snake Spit” was something very scary; You knew you were looking at a berry bush that had been, perhaps just moments before, visited by a noxious reptile! I have since learned, I am sorry to say, that the white foam was never snake saliva, but rather a mass of bubbles made by an insect, a salivating insect, and the insect was probably inside the foam hiding from us. I’m glad I wasn’t aware of that trivia back then, “snake spitting” involved a lot more drama.

After about three hours of driving through the fields picking berries and drinking water, our buckets were full, the cooler was empty, and we were hungry; it was time to go home. We sat motionless in the backseat of the truck with buckets of berries wedged between our scraped knees and wearily watched the buckets for signs of life. Little things moved among the berries, things we’d rather not have in our cobbler but kept us entertained on the way home. After a quick rinse when we got home we found little bowls and the pot of sugar and ate our reward with spoons and smiles. What was left, my mom became a shoemaker. My mom had just spent the entire day playing with berries and children, creating this memory.

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