Sunday, July 14, 2013

Blackberry Time Here in the Mountains

I read Tipper Pressley's blog, The Blind Pig and the Acorn every day. I subscribe and it is delivered right to my Inbox. She is a friend but also, I enjoy her posts. Today she reminded me of my childhood on the farm where blackberries grew wild and where my sister and I were often sent to pick them. Mother made blackberry pie or cobbler and she also made blackberry jelly. I can still taste that jelly on one of her soft delicious biscuits. I have never found any jelly in a store as good as that my mother made. Tipper has generously given me some of her jelly at times and it is delicious as well. Now if I just had Mother's good biscuits.

Mother and Daddy in front of the farm house where I grew up.

I am sharing a poem from my book, Now Might as Well be Then, about my blackberry picking.

Blackberry Patch

Mother's voice rises above my bawling.
"Stop pitching a fit and get your bucket."
I plant myself on the top step
bare feet refusing to move.

My dread lies coiled deep in the brambles.
He slithered out when I thrust my hand
in to grab a plump one.
Fear-prickled, I danced in terror
then streaked home screaming.

An ominous cloud shadows the sky.
Fat raindrops plop in the yard dust.
Reprieve. Blessed reprieve.
           -- Glenda C. Beall


DJan said...

I am as afraid of the stickers as the snakes, Glenda. Blackberries are hard to pick! Love your poem.

Anonymous said...

It's easy to be afraid to get back on that horse once you fall off. At the beginning of the poem, I thought you, as a child, were in the midst of a tantrum caused by some mundane event, but when I read further, I understood. I wouldn't have wanted to pick blackberries again if that happened to me.