Blackberry Days

There's a blackberry progression; first too firm to pull off, then dark purple, but not sweet, then suddenly one day, they start to gently roll into your hand, giving itself up for a pie. Then they shrivel up, raisin-like and disappear.

We found a "super patch" by the river, one you don't mention to your neighbors, sneaking away with your Tupperware hidden under your long sleeve shirt on a blistering hot august morning. Once there, strangers are there, having found the super patch too, and much better equipped: sunhats, steel-toed shoes, poles, ladders, yogurt containers tied around their neck for two-handed picking and Ziploc bags for one step freezer action. Their hands are stained like a bad henna party, but their lips intact, not like us, who gorge more than put away in our containers. We start to feel too full and lethargic to keep picking, so we sit in the sun and smell the sweet aroma of dry grass, railroad tar, and river water.

There are smaller patches in the lanes around the neighborhood; we make the rounds after dinner for dessert. We make daddy get the high ones even if he's wearing shorts and getting scratched. It amazes me that crows, which I find regularly inside my bag at the park, pecking away at some old cracker crumbs, haven't figured out how to get our blackberries. I love these fruits, they grow best when completely ignored, and spread like wildfire. No need for neat rows, frequent watering, singing and weeding; it a real urban crop.