Mom made all our birthdays feel special and never failed to create a celebration for each and every one. These days I don’t find birthdays especially exciting. But nature still finds a way by gifting me the ripening of blackberries. In counting down the days to fresh cobbler I offer this essay from 2007. Although the children referenced in this piece are older, I am not. LOL But, I am a grandmother now so it’s time to pass a few traditions to the next generation.
Donna M. Crow
The nurse remembered Mama, the one with purple fingers, who had her babies in July. Those purple, briar pricked fingers, the first to touch my face, must have left their mark. But, not so anybody would notice, not for a while anyway. It’s like the disappearing ink in the cereal box that only re-appears in certain light, and it’s taken years.
We followed Mama out to the field, buckets in hand to pick enough for canning, making jams and cobblers. I complained about the heat, the briars, the possibility of snakes. Funny how all those dangers disappeared when playing spies, hiding in weeds or climbing trees. I was a poor hand to do any real help for Mama, but I was there. I was convinced blowing real hard would remove the chiggers. My belly filled faster than my pail, but Mama never complained. If we helped even a little, we got credit for it. She bragged on us when Daddy came home from work and sometimes, I believed her myself.
Most times though, Mama donned the early morning path without us, dew heavy on knee high boots, finger holes cut out of gloves, and did more work before we woke up than we ever thought about doing. By the time we woke, the berries were washed and prepared for the next step, and breakfast was ready. I preferred the berries sprinkled with sugar to any cobbler or pie. So, she always saved a bowl out for us to eat while she was preserving the rest for a winter’s feast.
On cold mornings, under heavy quilt, when I was reluctant to get out of bed, Mama spread the taste of summer on fresh homemade bread, near a crackling fire place. Nothing tastes sweeter as your backside warms against a morning fire. I became a human rotisserie, taking such luxury for granted. It’s taken years to appreciate the little things. But what I wouldn’t give on a cold winter’s day for a fire someone else started and homemade bread and jam someone else made. Come December, forget the presents, it’s Mama’s blackberry jam cake that tells me Christmas is here.
Each year now, near my birthday, I watch the berry patches waiting for the first black to appear. When it does, I stop on the trail for the taste that tells me summer has truly arrived. And, the marks of my birthright begin to show, one fingertip at a time as I make plans for the harvest.
Though my teenage daughter has only a slight interest in the berry patch, for now, I can see purple stains splotching her memories. I recognize it in her eyes once the chiggers have been washed off and she’s sitting in front of a fresh bowl straight from the patch. I see it in the winter, when we are weary of the cold and summer is as close as thawing out a bag of wild mountain blackberries. She is proud of making her own pie. This year, we tried dumplings for the first time. She loved them.
But, it’s my married son, who has fully reached the age of appreciation and is often my partner in picking. He is becoming known as a great cobbler maker in his own right, maybe better than me. We don’t settle for only those patches conveniently located. We have gone deeper and higher and found the fattest, juiciest berries, our location top secret. Once the season starts, we check our calendars for every opportunity to hit the woods.
I feel close to God out there, in the thicket, milk jug cut open in the front, handle attached to my belt, leaving both hands free to gather what is given, using nature the way it was intended. I know summer is fleeting and blackberry season lasts only about two weeks. It’s like a fever with me, not wanting to miss a single berry.
I have become a berry picking machine. I never eat while I pick. Sometimes I feel greedy, though, leaving few behind for the birds and snakes. I do little picking at the edge of the path, where the berries have blackened too soon in the sun’s harsh rays. The edge dwellers, rushing to their demise are sometimes knotty, tougher to pluck and bitter to the taste. It’s the ones farther in that catch my eye, make me forget about snakes as I wade deep into the thicket. Only when I become completely entwined in briars stuck on all sides, one with the vine, do I find what I’m looking for. They are a lesson in patience, having rested beneath the shade of a Tulip Poplar leaf, breathing in the cooler mountain air. The sun’s warm rays dancing through the leaves in perfect proportion to the moisture sipped through root straws, a sweet vacation. They are the ones, bigger than my thumb, that fills a gallon jug in ten minutes. They make me reach farther, take chances with footing and fall into holes. They are my berries, put there for me.
I’ve heard it said, “You’ll know who you are, when you know where you’re from.” I believe I am from the blackberry patch, marked at birth, by Mama’s purple fingers.
Old Soul Medicine Crow 