When I was a kid, we used to try to earn money by picking blackberries. I’m not sure how many bushes or vines or whatnot we had of the things, but it seemed like a million of them. We’d go out in our long sleeves and long pants to brave the picking. The worst part, of course, was the chiggers who loved living in the undergrowth and loved feasting on me.
We’d pick for what seemed like hours, and i never once was able to pick more than my older brother and sister. But we’d have plenty of berries to show for our work.
Mother would cook them up and serve them with biscuits for breakfast or maybe make a blackberry cobbler. I never did develop a taste for the things — the blackberries, not the biscuits!
It’s cold outside on this early May night, and I picture the blooms bursting out on the blackberry bushes and vines.
Makes my ankles and memories itch just thinking about it.