The fruits of my labor were worth it
I was 7 a.m. I jumped out of bed. This was the morning I had been waiting for!
For weeks during my morning walks, I had been watching the blackberries growing along the side of our yard turn from small, hard, red nuggets to big, juicy, blackberries. Yesterday during my walk, I determined that enough of the berries were ripe to start picking.
I put on sweat pants and a sweat shirt to protect myself from the brambles on the blackberry vines. Before I left the house, I was perspiring from the heat of my clothing. I decided to exchange the sweat shirt for a T-shirt. It was a decision I would pay for dearly.
Walking through the yard with a plastic gallon bucket on my arm, I felt a great sense of purpose. Though I walk this route every morning, this morning was different. I wasn't just walking to decrease my waistline and diminish my thighs. I was in search of food. Like the hunter-gatherers of old, I was heading out to provide for my family.
I thought about the boys' faces when they wake up, their mouths watering when they see the fresh fruit. Perhaps I would make blackberry pancakes for breakfast; a blackberry cake for dessert this evening. Maybe we would just sprinkle them over ice cream ...
Flashback
As my mind rambled over these thoughts, I found myself remembering a moment in time from my childhood. It's funny how memories can flash into the mind.
I don't recall ever having thought about this instance before -- probably because I haven't picked blackberries since.
I was at my grandparents' house and my grandfather was heading out through his back yard, to the grown-up field below, to pick blackberries. He was carrying a half-gallon metal bucket. (I laughed as I looked at the flimsy plastic container I was carrying.) I distinctly remember walking behind him, trying to keep up with his long strides, watching the bucket swing back and forth with each purposeful step.
I don't know whether my memory has romanticized the event, but I recall my grandmother, back in the house, rolling out dough for a pie that she would fill with fresh blackberries. It's very likely she was.
Reaching the end of the yard, my sister and I excitedly started picking the blackberries along the edge of the patch.
Grandpap forged his way through the brambles. Not being a man of great patience for whiners, he told us to stay at the edge of the patch. Having been pricked by the jaggers already, we listened.
Grandpap disappeared into the patch. Some time later he reappeared, his bucket filled to overflowing with blackberries.
I remember being amazed at how many berries he had picked.
Funny, but I can't remember what my container looked like or how full it was. I just recall being embarrassed at my lack of effort.
That was not going to happen this day, I determined, looking down at my bucket.
After picking all the berries along the edge of the patch, just like my grandfather I trudged into the brambles.
Hot but happy
I would have done anything to be hot and sweaty in a sweat shirt now.
The jaggers tore at my skin.
The prickles dug into my fingers.
My nails turned purple from the juice of the berries.
At one point, the weight of my entire body was pressed against the brambles as I strained to reach a cluster of berries.
And I loved every minute of it. The sun, just beginning to rise over the patch, was drying the dew off the leaves of the brambles. The bees were buzzing around my head. Every once in a while, as I forged a new path through the brambles, I could hear the scurrying of a small animal -- a rabbit or a groundhog, perhaps.
In less than an hour, my plastic container was full. I emerged from the blackberry patch with scratches all the way up my arms. I stopped for a moment and picked a few jaggers from my skin.
It was hard work, no doubt. But looking at my bucket, filled to overflowing, I smiled as I made my way back to the house.
Grandpap would be pleased.
gwhite@vindy.com