Blackberry Season

 Monday was my first blackberry picking. Note that I said "picking", which indicates a serious pursuit. I did not say first "eating", because there has been a lot of grazing going on while I waited for enough to ripen to make a mess. 

Do you ever use that word? In a story that I wrote, I had my main character say they caught a mess of fish. She was questioned as to what that meant. She slyly said it was equal to a bait. When asked what that was, she replied, "A goodly amount." I love the colloquialisms of the south. Everyone in my family has used the words "mess" and "bait" in regards to fish or food at some time. (I got a mess of peaches. He picked a bait of okra.) So I looked these phrases up. Turns out that "mess" is thought to come from the Old French word mes, meaning a portion of food. And, according to Webster's Dictionary, "bait" can mean to give food and drink to an animal, especially on the road. So, perhaps it came down from that? Anyhoo, we'll say I was waiting for a goodly amount ;).

Some of the berries were small, and some were huge! But 90% of them are still pink, so the possibility of many future "messes" is great!  As I picked I kept leaning over and smelling the most heavenly smell. When I could tear my eyes off the knobs of berries, I realized that the honeysuckle had twined through the vines, making picking doubly lovely.

A not-so-lovely moment was when I was buried up in a patch and realized I was intimately pressed against a giant poison ivy plant. I immediately said to myself, "Self- don't touch your face with your hands!" A wily and telepathic mosquito heard those words and homed in on the side of my nose. All mental capacity gone, I smacked myself hard in the face. So, blackberry juice, mosquito bite, and possible poison ivy, all on the side of my snout. Blackberry picking ain't for the faint of heart, Dear Reader. And I'm not even gonna go into how chiggers make a beeline straight for the underwear elastic. Nope, that's just too much...

This is the verdant field I was picking in. It belongs to a neighbor. When I was small, old Mr. and Mrs. Curran lived there. Then their daughter, Mrs. Gwendean. She was a nice lady, and she gave me permission to pick there any time I wanted, and gave the boys free rein to explore her land. She has passed now, but her sons have continued the pact with me. I'm glad, because no one else picks the berries. In fact, a new family, from somewhere far off, moved to the woods across the road. Last year the blackberries hung so thick over their mailbox that they looked like a purposeful decoration. I gritted my teeth and passed them by. I was certain that they would pick them. I mean, they wouldn't have even had to get out of the car. But no, they let them shrivel and drop. 

This is the view toward my land. The glint of roof to the left is my hubby's shop. We are tucked down into the hollow. The little white house was Ms Gwendean's. I remember when it was hot and dry in the middle of summer, she would go out and water the road so that the dust wouldn't fly up.When she passed, they just let the house go to ruin. Soon a hole in the roof afforded the perfect entryway for raccoons. A neighbor who keeps an eye on things said he walked up one day and startled a whole herd of coons that had been congregating in the parlor. And yes, the house still has the furniture and pictures on the walls. I find it terribly sad. Especially when another neighbor told me that old Mrs Curran had kept all her dolls in the attic. When I was small, sometimes Mrs Curran would have one of the dolls out for me to see. They were big dolls, made of porcelain and swathed in lace and fancy bonnets. They were hers as a girl, so they were from the late 1800's to early 1900's. And to think that they are likely all still up there. I have this envisionment of raccoons running about on top of broken doll's faces and shreds of old lace...

My picking partner, Tater

It was on the back porch of that old house that I learned some important things about truth and kindness. Moma and I went out back to see Mr Curran, who loved to sit and gaze out over the grass and trees. I couldn't have been more than five, because he passed soon after. On that day, he said how beautiful everything was. Moma and I nodded in agreement. Then he smiled and waved his arm from left to right, saying, "And it's all mine, as far as the eye can see." I remember being troubled. I almost spoke up to say that the land on the right was all our land. (In fact, it is my land today) I saw moma smile at me, and she said, "Yes, it's all beautiful." She didn't agree it was all his. But what she did do was allow him his dignity, peace and contentment. 

There are so many memories to the land and roads around us. I can't walk without thinking of them. And there will be plenty more blackberry pickings. You know that when I have a lot of something, I just have to make things. There are a slew of blackberry recipes I am wanting to try. (Slew! Oh, I just love words!) Stay tuned for the results, Dear Reader-