Blackberry Picking - Dog Baptism

Her name was Pearl.  She was probably in her early seventies, long gray hair wrapped into a tight bun on at the back of her head. She was not skinny, but not fat either.  She was substantial and walked slowly, but with a steady step. She was slightly bent at the shoulders, and when she walked long distances, which she did a lot, she always carried a walking stick.  Her walking stick changed daily or weekly, depending on when she found a small tree or sprout, long enough or strong enough to support her weight. She’d cut it off at the root with the heavy “grubbing” hoe that was never too far away.  She used the hoe to dig potatoes, weeds and to separate any snake head from the rest of its body.  She lived during a time and in a place where wasting what you had was sinful. Anything you found to eat that you didn’t raise yourself was a gift from God.  And there weren’t that many of those gifts that you didn’t have to work or look for.

We’d go on long walks on the hill, ascending the steep slope slowly, she took frequent stops, resting on her stick.  She was always looking down and around. She knew what we could eat and what we shouldn’t.  If she found something, she’d take a long butcher knife from the pocket of her apron and cut it.  She’d stick it in her “poke” and we’d eat it later as “poke” salad. The paths we walked were well-worn cow paths, or most of the time along an old dirt road a bulldozer had cut back on the hill years ago to make it easier to get to the ridge.  The road eroded and became overgrown over the years, but there was enough clear space to avoid the briars and poison ivy that grew under the trees.  We always came back with a full sack from one of those hikes.

At the top of the hill along the ridge, walking was a lot easier. There was a gas pipe line that was well maintained by the state, twenty five yards wide, with short grass growing between the metal posts that marked the line’s location. They looked like up-right cigarettes, painted white with an orange tip.  The pipe line was a good place to walk, way back behind the house, but as far as “poke” salad went, mostly barren.  About the only thing we’d find along the line were blackberries.  But these were by far our favorite treat.  They tasted sour, sweet and bitter all at the same time. And the things she could make it with them!

July was the time for serious blackberry picking. From our walks, she would know where all the blackberry canes were.  She would round up all the buckets and hand them out to the pickers. But before we could even start picking, she had to make sure we were all safe. 

In her eye there were four main dangers during the picking; #1 SNAKES, #2 Briars, #3 Sweat bees and #4 the sun.

For the snakes, she kept her hoe handy. We also picked with our old dog “Jake” a pretty competent snake killer, poisonous or otherwise. He was never content to just happen upon one, but was always keen to track one down. When he found one of these unfortunate reptiles, he’d bark excitedly and look over at you, as if asking, “Do you want to handle this, or do you want me to?”  Usually he took care of it.  If we didn’t seem interested, he’d dispatch it with a quick grab and a hard shake.  I never saw a live snake during any of the blackberry picking trips we made.

Blackberry thorns make you pay the price for picking the berries. They stick in your clothes and into your hands.  They scratch your wrists and arms. When we picked, we ALWAYS wore long sleeves buttoned down to block the thorns.  We’d wear long pants and boots.  We’d still get scratched and pricked on our ankles and legs, but nothing serious enough to make us stop.

The sweat bee loves people.  And in the case of the sweat bee, love hurts.  These small insects love to drink up our sweat.  And like most people, we’d sweat more around our joints: inside the elbow, the back of knee, under the arm or around the neck. A small black bee would get stuck or feel trapped when we bent or moved one of these joints and give a pretty potent sting. So, we kept our sleeves rolled down and our collar buttoned. We made sure the bee could not crawl up our leg.  Despite all our efforts, we always came home when several bee stings along with the buckets of berries.

She was always worried about being in the sun too long or with uncovered head.  We didn’t know what “brain fever” was, but we all knew we could die from it. So, the girls all wore bonnets and the boys wore caps.  Of course, during July in Kentucky, it can get quite warm, so we had a lot to offer to the sweat bees. With our long sleeves, long pants and hats, we must have been walking buffets for them. But on the positive side, not a single one of us died or even suffered from “brain fever”.

One hot July day, she announced we were going to pick blackberries. If we didn’t pick them today, the birds might eat them all, or even worse the berries would fall to the ground where they would attract SNAKES. Nobody could explain why berries on the ground would attract snakes. I always thought the snakes ate them, but now that I’m older, this seems absurd.  If the snakes wanted berries, they could pick them off the cane just like us. And they probably wouldn’t have any problems with the sweat bees.

We put on our long sleeve shirts and pants, donned our caps and bonnets, rounded up the buckets and called for the dogs. “Jake” had a partner in those days: “Skippy”.  Skippy was a Norwegian Elkhound and as we stood their sweating in our clothes, I developed a fair amount of empathy for him. He couldn’t take off his heavy coat, but it never seemed to bother him.  He spent a lot of his downtime under the porch or soaking in rain puddle. Yet, when it was time to go, no matter how hot, he never complained. Both dogs were very excited, since Skippy had developed a knack for dealing with serpents from his association with Jake.

The blackberry patch wasn’t that far away, but technically it wasn’t on our property. We had to cross a narrow creek, fun for us, but a bit harder for her. Even though there wasn’t much water, the sides were steep and slippery.  After we crossed, we all marched down along it, the dogs running ahead like Indian scouts. We found the patch, really several smaller patches and began to pick. The berries were large, juicy and dark purple. We began to fill our buckets and she filled up her apron.  She held it like a sack, and when it was full, she poured the contents into one of the larger gallon buckets we had brought along. 

It was a hot day, just a few fluffy white clouds and the sun was bearing down mightily, but none of us seemed to notice. We had hit the jackpot and whenever we felt thirsty we’d eat a berry.  We could tell she was quite content, and thinking of how she was going to can, bake, or boil the berries.  It was early morning and still some dew on the canes. 

At noon, we’d be finishing up.  “Brain fever” was much more likely at noon or after.  Most of our buckets were filled and we were getting tired of picking, anyway.

We heard Jake and Skippy barking.  We all looked in their direction, we knew something was up. Across the creek, we saw the Sturgill boys coming along with their two collies.  I can’t remember the dogs’ names, one was a young spotted collie, the other darker, older and a bit crankier.  He had taken a nip at my ankles before.

All four dogs spotted each other and charged. They met in the middle of the creek, and the battle began. We all stood along the banks, cheering for our favorites. The contest really wasn’t a fair one. Jake was a veteran of many such fights and rarely lost. Skippy, despite his cute name, was a large dog, and able to take care of himself. Within a few minutes, it was obvious the collies had had enough.

At one point, Jake was holding the younger collie under the water. We all gasped, it was always embarrassing when your dog whipped someone else’s dog (and even more embarrassing if your dog got whipped).  The youngest Sturgill boy shouted out from the other side of the bank:

“Hey, look! Your dog is baptizing our dog!”

Everyone laughed, the battle was over. The collies ran for the house. Jake and Skippy didn’t pursue, they had done their job and protected the blackberry pickers.  We invited the Sturgills up for some blackberry cobbler, or blackberry dumplings or blackberry ice cream, I don’t remember which.

Once we got the berries into the house, our work was done. But the work had just begun for her. The berries had to be washed, and the leaves, bugs and thorns removed.  She’d mix some of them up to make cakes, cobbler or dumplings.  The others she’d boil down to make jam.

When we ate the jam on a hot biscuit on some cold winter morning, we’d remember the hot days in July. We’d tell the story of the doggy baptism service again, and it got funnier every time we told it.