Every year when the blackberries ripened, my Mama would insist I go blackberry picking with her. It didn’t matter that we might encounter snakes, thorns, and/or chiggers, she was going; and, after a certain age, I was going with her.
Keep in mind, insect repellents were in the distant future and the biggest dread of all was chiggers.
No matter how hot it was, long pants with socks pulled up over the cuffs and long sleeves with tight cuffs was the attire. Believe it or not, that was the plan to avoid chiggers. Too bad the chiggers did not acknowledge this line of defense.
If you have never had a chigger infestation, you cannot possibly imagine how torturous one is. Chiggers like to embed themselves anywhere in the skin where elastic binds. There they do their awful magic and create spots that itch so badly there’s no way to keep from scratching them.
My Mama had read or been told that if flour was applied to the skin and elastic, it would deter the chiggers, so she shook out everyone’s undies in a bag of self-rising before we suited up for the mission.
My great grandparents owned a fairly large farm on Holly Springs that had patches of blackberries growing on it. We’d drive there with me complaining all the way. Once there we’d walk through the garden to the open pasture and the fence lines where the blackberry brambles grew, carrying empty Humko lard buckets.
Mama said the hardest part about blackberry picking was covering the bottom of the bucket. She declared once the bottom was covered, the rest was easy to fill up. She didn’t always tell the truth. That being said, she’d picked enough to cover the bottom of her bucket and then she’d switch with me. God love her! She’d switch buckets with me 20 or more times until she got both of them full. I was more into avoiding thorns and snakes than picking blackberries.
When I was too little to go berry picking, that’s exactly what I wanted to do. As Grandma and Mama crossed the road to go down to the pasture, I wailed and begged to go with them. Grandma promised to bring something back for me to get me to hush. That did the trick, and I waited to see what it would be. After filling the buckets, they climbed the hill, and I met them. Grandma reached into her apron pocket and brought out my prize – a little field mouse.
Walter owns a junkyard out in the country, and you would not believe how beautiful and bountiful the blackberry bushes were around those junked cars. They must like rusting automobile bodies. The day came when nothing would satisfy him but for me to go with him and pick blackberries. We walked on the cars, never touching the ground and picked gorgeous berries. All was well until a huge thorn ripped the pad of my thumb, and then I was done.
He probably was unaware of my berry picking past, and looked at me in disbelief when I said I was going to the truck. There I sat until he filled his bucket.
You know, when it’s bean-picking time, I don’t like green beans. When it’s blackberry time, I really will swear I never eat blackberries. Detest them, in fact. But, I’ll admit, if they’re already made into a cobbler, I might have a taste.