Blackberries

Photo: Patricia Lambert

Grandpa had a way of standing that made him look like a weathered fencepost, rooted deep into the loam and refusing to budge for any storm. Today, he wore a canvas apron, stained with decades of motor oil and berry juice, and his hands bore the marks of battles with thickets of brambles. He didn't talk much when he was concentrating on blackberries, but when he did speak, the weight of his voice demanded absolute attention.

This was not a job for sissy's.Grandpa handed each of us a heavy galvanized bucket, the metal cool and smelling of old rain. The blackberry thickets were a wall of green leaves glistening with morming dew, and jagged thorns that seemed to actively reach for our skin while guarding the dark, swollen berries with a fierce intensity.

My brother, Lonnie, tried tried to be clever, attempting to use a long stick to pull the branches closer, but Grandpa just shook his head. He showed us how to brace our shoulders and reach deep into the heart of the bush accepting a few scratches as the price of admission for the capture of the sweetest berries.

By noon, the heat had settled over the ridge like a heavy wool blanket and our fingers were stained a deep bruised purple. We hoped our job was finished, but it was not. We spent the same amount of time gently scrubbing the berries as we did picking them, but it was carried out in the cool water of a natural spring, bubbling up only yards away. However, our reward was a promise that we could eat all the sweet berries that our tummies could hold.