One of my very favorite times of the year is just about upon us — berry-picking time! I'm especially fond of blackberries, in spite of the fact that my very first picking experience was a complete disaster!
It was 1953, the last summer before cancer would take my mother. I was just 4 years old, but I remember it like it was yesterday - every detail of that afternoon.
We were visiting my maternal grandmother (Grammie) for a few days and I was excited and ant-sy at her announcement that we would be picking blackberries after lunch. Grandpa surprised me with a shiny little pint can that had a wire handle for me to carry it. It was just my size and I could hardly wait to fill it with those sweet, sun-warmed berries!
After lunch, Grammie told me to get my can and I happily skipped along with her and my mom as we crossed the old country road to a neighbor's farm. We walked a short distance on the hard red clay to a wooden gate that opened up to an expansive, grassy field. We could see a herd of cows at the far end, and Grammie told us to be quiet so they wouldn't see us or they would come running to be fed. That idea frightened me, so I was quiet as a mouse.
We turned to the left and entered a large alcove of trees that hid us from the cows and provided us with shade from the hot summer sun. My eyes opened wide in surprise to see a huge entanglement of blackberry vines just in front of us, and the aroma of ripening fruit made my mouth water!
The two women stationed themselves on opposite sides, and I stayed close to Grammie. Mom was saying how she hadn't seen so many berries in one place before. Because they were so plentiful, it didn't take but just a few minutes before my little can was nearly full. I licked my fingers that were stained with the purple flavor that promised a freshly-baked pie after supper.
Suddenly, the quiet was pierced by an alarming scream from my mom. "SNAKE!!!" Instantaneously, Grammie dropped her basket, grabbed my arm just above my wrist, and ran like the wind all the way back to the house. You'd have thought she would have slowed down when she hit the clearing, but that's only because you didn't know that Grammie was a subscriber to the old wive's tale that black snakes chased you down by grabbing their tails with their mouths and rolled along like an old tire to catch and bite you.
She ran faster than a speeding bullet with my mom right behind. Unfortunately, my little legs just couldn't keep pace, and when we got to the house, both my knees were a bloody mess. Of course, that meant a trip to the bathroom where I sat on the toilet (lid down, of course) and endured the remedy of that era — Mercurochrome. Covering my wounds with the brownish-orange, pinkish fluid left me in tears and a lot of pain. That stuff burned like crazy and my grandmother tried to help by blowing on it. But my tears were not as much for my knees as they were for my lost berries. My shiny little can contained just the few berries that had not spilled out during our race to safety.
Many summers since then, I've ventured out on hot, humid days to find the treasures that grow on wild vines. Despite the heat, the brambles, and the biting insects, I still feel the joy and excitement of that little girl in 1953 when she found that glory hole of berries. I always laugh when I wonder what that poor snake must of thought; I always shed a tear to think of the loss that would shortly come.
But most of all, I enjoy the memory of the three of us together on our little adventure and hope I get enough for a pie. And yes, I still watch for snakes.
It was 1953, the last summer before cancer would take my mother. I was just 4 years old, but I remember it like it was yesterday - every detail of that afternoon.
We were visiting my maternal grandmother (Grammie) for a few days and I was excited and ant-sy at her announcement that we would be picking blackberries after lunch. Grandpa surprised me with a shiny little pint can that had a wire handle for me to carry it. It was just my size and I could hardly wait to fill it with those sweet, sun-warmed berries!
After lunch, Grammie told me to get my can and I happily skipped along with her and my mom as we crossed the old country road to a neighbor's farm. We walked a short distance on the hard red clay to a wooden gate that opened up to an expansive, grassy field. We could see a herd of cows at the far end, and Grammie told us to be quiet so they wouldn't see us or they would come running to be fed. That idea frightened me, so I was quiet as a mouse.
We turned to the left and entered a large alcove of trees that hid us from the cows and provided us with shade from the hot summer sun. My eyes opened wide in surprise to see a huge entanglement of blackberry vines just in front of us, and the aroma of ripening fruit made my mouth water!
The two women stationed themselves on opposite sides, and I stayed close to Grammie. Mom was saying how she hadn't seen so many berries in one place before. Because they were so plentiful, it didn't take but just a few minutes before my little can was nearly full. I licked my fingers that were stained with the purple flavor that promised a freshly-baked pie after supper.
Suddenly, the quiet was pierced by an alarming scream from my mom. "SNAKE!!!" Instantaneously, Grammie dropped her basket, grabbed my arm just above my wrist, and ran like the wind all the way back to the house. You'd have thought she would have slowed down when she hit the clearing, but that's only because you didn't know that Grammie was a subscriber to the old wive's tale that black snakes chased you down by grabbing their tails with their mouths and rolled along like an old tire to catch and bite you.
She ran faster than a speeding bullet with my mom right behind. Unfortunately, my little legs just couldn't keep pace, and when we got to the house, both my knees were a bloody mess. Of course, that meant a trip to the bathroom where I sat on the toilet (lid down, of course) and endured the remedy of that era — Mercurochrome. Covering my wounds with the brownish-orange, pinkish fluid left me in tears and a lot of pain. That stuff burned like crazy and my grandmother tried to help by blowing on it. But my tears were not as much for my knees as they were for my lost berries. My shiny little can contained just the few berries that had not spilled out during our race to safety.
Many summers since then, I've ventured out on hot, humid days to find the treasures that grow on wild vines. Despite the heat, the brambles, and the biting insects, I still feel the joy and excitement of that little girl in 1953 when she found that glory hole of berries. I always laugh when I wonder what that poor snake must of thought; I always shed a tear to think of the loss that would shortly come.
But most of all, I enjoy the memory of the three of us together on our little adventure and hope I get enough for a pie. And yes, I still watch for snakes.
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