Blackberry Picking

There is something magical about the first blackberry picking expedition of the season. You step out of your front door into the rush of traffic and the flicker of lights and fifteen minutes later you are walking quietly along an abandoned railroad, feeling the caress of the late sun on your cheek. The season is early and only a few berries have begun to swell and gleam in the golden light. It is like a treasure hunt, your eyes darting back and forth to find the rare burst of blue-black amidst the sea of green and pink. You relish the simple sounds of the evening. The slither of water through the weeds and bamboo. The crackle of conversation between the crickets and the birds. The whisper and clatter of the trees as the wind turns their leaves into gentle castanets. Even the cars on the distant highway have a rhythm and melody of their own. You walk along the railroad track, keeping a keen eye on the bushes to the left. There are no ripe berries, and the ground is too steep. You turn around, focusing on the other side of the track. A berry here, a berry there, dropped into the plastic bag with a satisfying plop. And then, there it is. The first clump of ripe berries, clinging with plump self-satisfaction to the prickly branches. You step carefully but eagerly and thrust your hands into the bushes, heedless of waiting thorns or spiders, to pluck the fat berries from their perches. These are moments of joy: the rush of fulfillment when you have to tug a little too hard for the stubborn berry to come free, or the burst of childlike satisfaction when a too-ripe globe crumbles at the slightest touch and you have to greedily lick the burgundy juice from your fingers. And soon the bottom of your bag is covered as you break free every last ripe blackberry from the flowering plants, avoiding the temptation to eat as many as you pick. You step back, satisfied, knowing that in a few short weeks those berries left behind will swell and darken and be ready for your next expedition.

And then you walk home, crunching through the gravel and gripping your plastic bag, admiring the sinking sun and darkening sky as you slowly reenter civilization. The berries are washed in cool water, dried and re-bagged, and placed carefully, reverently, into the freezer. You shut the freezer door with a quiet pride, knowing that in no time at all you will be sharing your rich bounty with dear family, savoring the taste and smell of a town and state you have grown to love. As you eat every last bite and lick your spoon clean, you are reminded of the melodious evenings of blackberry picking that has brought this delight. And then once again, in a year or so, you will embark on the first blackberry picking expedition of the season, eager to share the lovely memories of an evening in the late sunlight.