Yesterday I took part in one of the old pastimes of summer, picking wild blackberries. Kyle and I drove to Maumelle and turned into the beautifully manicured neighborhood of our friend Emily. She hopped in the car, and said the expected words "we can drive there." I knew there were no wild blackberry bushes in this bourgeoisie paradise. But then we drove a couple of blocks and parked in front of a paved bike and walking trail. "So, this is the neighborhood's blackberry trail?" I asked. She said pretty much, and we began winding down the trail between houses. I had brought a large bucket for picking, and when we arrived at the first "bush" I knew I'd leave with a light load. It was just into the woods, right off of the path, in view of at least 10 houses. We probably got 7 or 8 berries. In this huge neighborhood, I imagined there must be at least enough enterprising souls to keep these blackberry bushes pretty clean. After a ways, we struck what I thought was the jackpot, though. Deep into the thicket was a huge bush covered in ripe berries. We spent quite a while cleaning every fresh n' ready fruit in sight. The thorns were ripping at my bare arms, the sun was beating down on my skin, and sweat was running down my face, but all of these adversities made me value the tiny treasures even more.
Isn't it crazy, really crazy, that the earth actually naturally grows edible treats by no human encouraging or intervention? Isn't it odd that most people have never picked their own food? Here I was, in the middle of waist high thorns, sweating waterfalls, for free berries, and enjoying every second of it. Honestly, what a pleasure it is to work for your own food!
Next we walked down a dirt road next to some railroad tracks. It was lined with bush after bush of heavy berries. Why had no one picked these? Did no one know they were here, or were they just not willing to put the effort into picking them? I was glad either way. More berries for me!
Emily wandered into the woods and returned with a palm full of huckleberries. I asked if she was sure whether or not they weren't poisonous. She assured that they weren't and urged me to try them. They were tiny and black. I hesitantly bit into them, and happily agreed that they were wonderful.
Where was I? Not the place, but the time. It felt as if I had gone back in time 75 years to a place without airconditioning. A place where grandma canned food for the winter, and made huckleberry pie. A rumbling noise grew in the distance, and a train slowly roared by. Flies buzzed around my head, and heat waves distorted the distant road ahead. This was life. Raw and wild. And real. And southern.
We picked 12 cups of blackberries, which is like 5 lbs. We eventually grew tired of the heat, and with our half full bucket, empty water bottles, and my head full of thoughts we wandered back to the car. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that there are grocery stores and farms to provide me with my every desire. But... it means so much more to work for your food. You really appreciate the sweet flavor of the good berries, and you don't freak out when you eat one that doesn't look quite perfect because they sometimes taste the best. And to just share the bounty of the earth with the people you love... that's what summer should be about.
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