Picking Wild Blackberries in the Rain

    The deep, dark blackberry waved at me tantalizingly under it's glistening coat of rain.

    "Here I am!" It seemed to call. "Come get me!"

    Everything in the waist-deep thicket was glazed with rainwater, leaving wet smudges on my jeans as I waded ever deeper into the underbrush. The wind-driven drizzle plastered the ends of my hair against my face, excess water streamed down my cheek and neck to soak the collar of my t-shirt. The muddy ground was slippery and soft, making for treacherous footing at times.

    I didn't mind. The berries were large and abundant; free for the taking. Other than the rain, the picking was easy. There were no poisonous snakes or spiders to worry about. No spider webs to speak of either. No chiggers or swarms of mosquitoes. Just the rain and the wind, punctuated with sporadic birdsong.

    I felt distinctly lucky to be crawling around on these slopes, foraging for berries destined to be a batch of good old blackberry jelly. It takes a lot of fruit to make jelly, since only the juice is used. Jams and preserves are simple and straightforward. Dump the fruit into a pot, add lots and lots and lots of sugar, cook it down, pour into jars and can them. There are more steps in jelly-making, the flesh of the fruit is discarded, and in most cases, you must add pectin.

    The wild blackberries on our farm grow at the edge of the pasture, and in the orchard, under the old apple trees. Some are round and fat, some are tiny and tough, while still others are long and conical. Sometimes known as "blackcaps", they ripen from the tip to the stem end, as though the wee forest folk dip their ends into stain each night until the entire berry is black as tar.

    It is said that if hunting was easy, we'd call it shopping. That holds true for berries and plants as well as for game meat. Once you think you've picked all the ripe berries, look at the patch from a different angle- there are sure to be more. Every time I am sure I've gathered every single one, I turn around and see another. It is clear how the children of the old fairytales could be lured so easily into the dark forest, chasing one beautiful berry after the next.

    Slowly the rain eases, and stops. The clouds break and scuttle across the windy sky. Under the branches of the old apple trees, I stopped picking to admire the show. Shafts of sunlight hit the canopy of branches and shattered into countless dapples of gold and yellow. Freshly fallen rain became incandescent, sparking and gleaming from leaves, seed heads and petals. It was a fleeting display. A large, steel gray cloud slid between the sun and the orchard, and broke the spell. Smiling to myself, I continued harvesting as my basket grew heavy.

    It was quiet in the grove of old trees. The breeze rustled the tall grass and branches; the resulting patter of rainwater rippled the air as the damp was shaken off.
   
    There was a time, not so long ago, when the roar of silence made me uncomfortable. When I was at home, I had the TV on for what I called, "background noise". While driving, CDs or radio music blared from the car speakers. When I was working outside, I had a set of earphones through which I listened to music or audible books. Recently, however, I've found myself pursuing the quiet of simple tasks. Not just romping through the woods, but peeling vegetables or snapping beans at home, while outside the crickets chirp and the wind snaps the white cotton curtains as it blows through the house.

    I hung my berry basket from the low-hanging branch of a nearby apple tree and unzipped my raincoat. It was getting warmer. I puttered around the hillside, blindly seeking footholds in the chest-high vegetation. Unable to see where I was going, I toppled into the creek bed and landed on my rump in the mud, holding the basket high so no precious berries tumbled out. As the wet creek bank soaked into the seat of my jeans, I embraced my position and remained sitting for a moment, looking up at the sky, listening to the gentle lullaby of the dozens of birds who make the orchard home. It was so peaceful.

    Making my way out of the mud, I whistled for the dogs. The ensuing crash of underbrush told me they were on their way. Hooking the basket over my elbow, I climbed onto my 4-cycle pony and rumbled down the hill, content with my harvest, already planning the rest of the day.

The front of my soggy Life Is Good t-shirt read "Lucky Lass".  It was so true. I am one Lucky Lass.