"What Some People Won't Go Through (For Blackberries!)" by LeAnn Ralph

by LeAnn R. Ralph
A Story about Life in the Country

I have decided picking blackberries is not for the faint of heart.

During the time I lived away from my hometown, I discovered only one good patch of blackberries. And it was a rather small patch at that, producing only a few bowlfuls of berries.

So of course, over the years, I had forgotten about all the drawbacks associated with picking blackberries.

You'd think, though, with all the picking I'd done as a kid that I'd remember. But when I was growing up, the patch of woods containing the best blackberries was actually part of our cow pasture. The dairy cows had obligingly worn nice paths all through the patch so you could at least get to the blackberries before all of your other troubles started.

Still, though, you would have thought I'd at least remember the basics of picking blackberries.

But I didn't.

I forgot you get really hot - amongst the briars - because you have to wear a long-sleeved shirt. If you don't, your arms become one, big blackberry scratch. (Well, at least I REMEMBERED to wear a long-sleeved shirt.)

I forgot blackberry briars have long, strong thorns, too, that can poke through denim jeans and scratch your legs anyway.

And then I forgot it's a good idea to wear thick-soled leather boots to protect your ankles. I wore an old pair of tennis shoes. My sock-covered ankles paid for it when the briars snuck up under my pants legs.

I also forgot you can get so entangled in blackberry briars that it is usually impossible to get out of the thicket the way you got in.

And I forgot blackberry briars hide all kinds of obstacles on the forest floor - like stumps, fallen logs and holes. Never mind that walking with blackberry briars wound around your ankles is hard enough.

I forgot, too, the biggest, juiciest, best blackberries often grow in the middle of thickets taller than your head.

And I forgot sometimes the briars can be so thick, you can't see your picking partner, even though he's only ten feet away...

"Yoo hoo!", I called.

"What?" my husband answered from somewhere nearby. I knew he had to be quite close, and yet I couldn't see him.

"I found a nice patch, but I think it requires a tall person with long arms," I said. "Shall I keep talking so you can find me?"

In a few minutes, I could actually see Randy fighting his way through the brush.

"THAT'S where you want me to pick?" he asked, looking at the thicket with brambles growing up into the trees.

"But Sweetheart," I answered innocently, "you know I can't reach them."

Brave man that he is, my husband heaved a sigh and then waded into the thicket. I gauged his progress by the "ouches" I heard floating through the tangled blackberry patch.

In another five minutes, he had picked all the berries he could reach.

"How am I supposed to get out of here?" he asked.

"The way you got in?" I offered, knowing he probably hoped I had brought an ax with me but had forgotten to mention it before.

As he fought his way out I heard the sound of tearing fabric, more "ouches" and a few words I can't repeat here.

"The things I won't do for blackberry jam," my husband grumbled as he emerged from the brambles - scratched and bleeding.

I'm hoping that by winter, when Randy is enjoying blackberry jam on his toast, his scratches will be healed and the scars will be gone.

And I'm also hoping that by the time blackberry season rolls around again, he will have forgotten all about the patch growing up into the trees.

The one I asked him to pick.

Because if he doesn't, I'll probably be on my own...