Our blackberries are disappointing this year. We're the blooms frosted, or was there too much or not enough rain at crucial times? I don't know, but I had high hopes early on when we saw how many berries were setting on. Thinking about our berries reminded me of berry-picking when I was a girl.
There was a place down the street from our house we just called "the vacant lot". It seemed huge back then, and so wild. There were a few scrawny trees, but most of the lot was covered with weeds, sumac, poison ivy and prickly blackberry vines. It felt dangerous; we thought the sumac was poisonous, although it was the staghorn variety and perfectly safe. There were Persimmon trees, and wild grapes which we also thought were deadly, and pokeweed berries and elderberries, greenbrier and all sorts of other thorny, prickly plants in the wild tangle of growth.
Judy, Maggie, Theresa, me, and Stephen. Of this group, only Judy and I would pick berries. Usually Tom and Joe would go too, if they weren't working elsewhere, and Mary, who is between Judy and Theresa in age, would also be with us. The others were too little, but maybe they took up the job later. I can't remember.
Paths wound through the lot. I don't know who or what made them; in places the paths were wide and easy to walk, in others narrow and overhung with wild growth. On the side that bordered our neighbors the Earharts, there were neatly mown walkways, and the berry vines there were less wild, and covered with large juicy berries. These were taboo--Mr. Earhart, Mom explained, took care of this patch and those berries were his.
Daisy and Nappy lived on the far side of the vacant lot. Daisy cleaned for us occasionally, usually after a baby arrived, I think. She had an odd way of smacking her lips as she talked, nodding her head and calling Mom "Miz Conley". It seems like Nappy also did some work for Mom, but I can't remember for sure. He was a small thin man with a big wide grin, and not given to talking much. Perhaps it was Nappy and Daisy who made the paths, winding their way home and picking berries as they went. I remember one time going with one of my older brothers after dark to fetch Daisy. We had a lantern and the light made the path we followed eerie and unfamiliar. I could hear creatures scurrying about, and a whippoorwill called out suddenly, frightening the lights out of me. I suppose Mom was going to have a baby, and we needed Daisy to come stay with us. Otherwise, I don't know why we would have had to make that scary walk.
When the berries were ripe, Mom would send us to the lot in the morning with buckets and big canner pots to be filled. Often the grass and vines were dew-covered, soaking our shoes and clothes as we passed through. We each had favorite places to pick, vying for the spots with the most and the biggest berries. We had to eat some, of course, and as the sun rose and the dew dried, our lips, fingers and hands would be covered with purple stain.
It was a bloody job, literally. Those vicious thorns claimed their pound of flesh in return for the berries! Even long sleeves didn't help much, as the vines easily tore through cotton and flannel. We would be finished before noon, returning home with full buckets and two of us carrying the big, heavy canner pot. We'd wash off the blood, put mercurechrome on the scratches, and check each other for ticks. Back then, ticks were a nuisance but there were no tick-borne diseases to worry about. All afternoon Mom would make blackberry jam in the July-steamy kitchen, and that night, there would be blackberry cobbler for dessert.
One particular day we had been picking for quite a while but the berries were smaller than usual, and there weren't as many of them. I found myself near Mr. Earhart's patch, and saw huge blackberries hanging thick on the vines. I was hot, sweaty, scratched, and my hair was full of twigs and leaves. I could hear the Earharts out on their porch, talking and laughing, and not even caring about those beautiful berries! Slowly I worked my way closer and closer to that berry promised land, and finally, sure no one could see me, I started picking. Oh, those gorgeous berries! My brother started calling me. "Sue! Sue! Where are you?" Obviously I couldn't answer, but I scurried back to our usual picking place fast!
That afternoon as I cleaned up I noticed that there was an odd spot on my leg: two puncture wounds surrounded by slightly swelled flesh. I showed it to Mom. "Mom, look at this! Is it a bug bite?"
Mom took one look, grabbed my arm and next thing I knew we were hurrying down the street to the doctor's office. Where the doctor confirmed that it was a snakebite, probably copperhead, but for some reason the snake had not released any venom. I was sure that bite was was divine retribution for picking Mr. Earhart's berries.
When we went back to pick the next year, we all wore long pants, and I stayed far, far away from those big, shining berries in the forbidden land. Eventually we grew up, and so did the vacant lot. Trees soon shaded out the berries, and finally that land, like all the land at the end of our street, was covered with houses. But I bet if those people quit mowing their perfect lawns for a year or two, berry vines would soon return.
