When we bought the thirty-some acres that made our little homestead so much larger (we originally had only six acres), wild blackberries grew everywhere. I canned and froze gallons, literally. I made jam and jelly that I never got around to using.
But it didn't take Cliff long to start clearing the land: He hired a guy with a bulldozer to clean up the whole east side of our property, which is where most of the berries grew. I'm glad he did this, by the way. It looks a lot better with grass growing there, and it's one of the cows' favorite grazing areas. Besides, how many blackberries can two people eat? Even when my children were home, they didn't care for blackberries... they didn't like the seeds.
Yesterday, on my sixty-sixth birthday, I thought to myself what a wonderful gift it would be if I could find enough blackberries for a pie. Just one pie, for old times' sake.
The first time I headed to the point, which is where my remaining berries grow, thunder rumbled, my dog panicked, and I returned to the house to wait for the rain to end. We certainly do get the rain around here.
Later in the evening with the sun shining brightly, my dog and I returned to the berry patch. I have the tips of little thorns festering in a couple of fingers this morning, but I came back with three cups of blackberries.