BLACKBERRY PICKIN'
By Elizabeth O. Dulemba

We headed out on what promised to be a scorchingly hot day, bug spray and buckets in hand. I had spotted the perfect blackberry patch on one of our off-road trips around Devil's Den— an historic rural community near our home, once famous for moonshine-making. We allowed the blackberries a few weeks to ripen, then slowly urged our vehicle back up the deeply creviced road. The abandoned development eventually opened up to a once-cleared field now thick with blackberry vines.

From the waist down I sprayed myself silly with bug repellent. One chigger-bit summer some years back taught me that lesson, I hadn't been able to show my legs the entire season. So I turned myself into a toxic cloud. My husband decided to forego the bug-spray. Silly husband, he paid for that one.

Making as much noise as we could, we gingerly worked our way into the thickets.

"Hey bears, we're here! Might want to move on!

"Snakie, snakies, take cover! Don't want any surprises!"

The first step is always a taste inspection. After several handfuls we decided the berries were ready. The experience of a perfectly ripe blackberry still warm from the sun is incredible. The juice squishes around your mouth like the finest country wine.

It's a slow process grabbing between the thorns and filling the buckets one handful at a time. The sun beats on your shoulders, the sweat drips down your nose, crickets and cicadas sing you into a meditative trance. Tai Chi is nothing compared to blackberry picking. If you don't move slowly, you quickly become entangled in the thorns. The motions are even similar— reaching your hand deep into the vines, you gently grab an entire bunch of berries by coaxing the ripest ones to fall into your hand cupped below. It's extremely calming.

I heard a slithering sound, "Uh-oh." Looking down I discovered I had accidentally trapped a snake under my boot. I wasn't hurting him, but he couldn't get free. I lifted up the corner of my foot and he slithered on.

"Was that a copperhead?" I tried to get a better look at its fat body with rust and tan patterns, but he reached cover before I could see if he had the telltale angular head.

My husband is a great sport, but blackberry picking is not his thing. So after a while I was getting more blackberries thrown at me than were landing in my bucket.

"Okay, okay!" I laughed, "I think we have enough."

Upon inspection, we had filled two buckets to the rim, and our hands and tongues were solid purple. We made our way down to a nearby stream. The water was cold and refreshing as it tumbled over the rocks. We scrubbed our hands till they were un-purpled and resisted the urge to dive in completely. Air-drying with the truck windows down, we enjoyed the sounds of the crickets all the way out.

Back home the kitchen closely resembled a laboratory as I de-seeded and then boiled the jelly. Purple juice was everywhere as I poured the liquid into a dozen half pint jars and processed them in my huge enamelware pot. When they were sitting on the counter cooling like crystal jewels, I waited to hear what I call the little "pops of joy" proving the sealing process was complete.

The finished product is so pretty it's hard to open them, but the real reward is in the tasting. So a few days later I broke the seal of the “gotta make sure it’s okay” jar. Slathered on homemade bread the flavor rolled around in my mouth, sweet and tart at the same time, taking me right back to that perfect day at Devil's Den.