Picking Blackberries

Story ID:	2009
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan
Story type:	Family Memories
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Cumberland County IL USA
Year:	1962

In the late fifties and early sixties, summer vacation meant having fun doing things like swimming, riding bicycles, and playing with friends…not picking blackberries. With the exception of pulling weeds out of the garden, picking blackberries was the chore I hated most. Unfortunately, my dad’s favorite dessert was blackberry cobbler. In the olden days, we didn’t run out to the grocery store to buy a bag of frozen berries, we found a patch of wild blackberries and picked them ourselves.

“Bet-ty. O-tis. Time to get up.” Mom called in a sing-song voice, simultaneously knocking on our closed doors.

I opened one eye. It was still dark outside. Whatever Mom wanted, it wasn’t going to be fun. Fun waited until we woke up on our own, work never did. With eyes half closed, I shuffled toward the kitchen as a prisoner would walk toward the death chamber. I pulled out my chair, glared at my brother who was looking exceptionally chipper, and sat down. I barely had time to lay my head across folded arms when Mom appeared beside me.

“Here’s your oatmeal. Eat up. Your grandma is coming for Sunday dinner and Dad wants a blackberry cobbler. It’s sure to be a hot day, so we should get an early start.”

Seeing I wasn’t planning to quickly finish breakfast, she continued, “Hurry, we have to go soon.”

I held back a groan, knowing Mom would give me one of her disappointed looks, and then I would feel guilty. Mom was good at guilt. I obediently picked up my spoon.

Reluctantly, I put on my blackberry picking clothes, a long sleeved blouse, long pants, and heavy socks. We were required to bundle up as if heading for the nether regions of the Antarctic. Mom said it was for our protection, yet in eighty degree humid heat it felt more like punishment. Socks were not worn as they were meant to be; instead I tucked my pant legs inside the socks. Long sleeves and long pants were necessary to keep briar scratches to a minimum. The socks were worn in this odd manner to minimize chigger bites. I was ready.

We each took a bucket from the garage, and started off across the field. The cloudless sky confirmed mom’s hot-day prediction.

We were tired before reaching the briar…I mean blackberry patch. Yet we were required to fill our buckets to the brim, so we started picking. I counted the berries, one for the bucket, two for me, one for the bucket, three for me.

Boredom set in long before my bucket was half empty. To entertain myself and add a little levity to our work day, I gave my brother a wink and shrieked loudly.

“What is it?” My mom asked, as she hurried toward me through the thick mass of briars, ready to rescue her only daughter from some unknown threat.

“Snake,” I said in what I hoped was a frightened voice.

“Where?” Mom questioned, frantically searching for the scaly beast.

I pointed toward a stick peeking out through a heap of dead briars.

Mom rolled her eyes, “I’m not in the mood for your silly little tricks. Get back to work.”

Disgusted by my attempt to be humorous, my dear brother added his directive, “Stop eating the berries and pick faster. Do you want to spend the day out here?”

“Okay,” I said contritely.

About thirty minutes and 10 rounds of Row Row Row Your Boat later, I took a step forward, looked down, and shrieked again.

Mom raised her eyebrow in warning, my brother ignored me. I screamed again. I even pointed downward. My mouth opened and closed, yet I couldn’t speak.

I was on my own. I edged backward, away from the black coiled mass sunning itself in a bare spot. The snake looked up at me through mean, evil eyes, his tongue flicking in and out. Attempting a hasty retreat, I stumbled and fell backward. Briars embedded themselves in my posterior, while the berry bucket spewed forth its hard earned contents. This time I screamed in pain, as well as fear the snake would wrap itself around my neck as my father had once warned they could.

Somewhere between the scream and the embedded briars, my mother saw I wasn’t playing another trick and came to my rescue.

Unsympathetically she shook her finger, “That should teach you not to cry wolf.”

Once my brother chased the snake away with a big stick, I was told to pick up the spilled berries. By the time I had cautiously gathered every last one, my mother declared we had picked enough for a cobbler.

With berry stained teeth and purple lips, I left the berry patch behind. It was a long, silent walk home. My brother was mad at me for not picking my share, my mother was mad because I scared her, and my dad was sure to give me one of his lectures. There wasn’t much to look forward to that day.

As if my dad’s harsh words hadn’t been enough punishment, I woke up the next morning to profuse itching. I was covered in chigger bites. No one had time to help me, except Grandma. With briar scratches covered by orange mercurochrome, and a tummy full of chigger bites dotted with bright red nail polish, I put on a clean blouse and walked into the dining room with my beloved Grandma.

During dinner, I fidgeted and wiggled in a vain attempt to get comfortable. My discomfort was forgotten when Mom brought out bowls of blackberry cobbler covered in homemade ice cream. I took a huge bite, savoring the sweet juicy berries while melted ice cream dripped off my chin. Nothing could have tasted more heavenly.

It took several days for the chigger bites and briar scratches to heal. I could never forget the agony, yet I would go again. Were sweat, boredom, and the eventual discomfort of chigger bites worth another bite of cobbler? You bet!