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