Columnist John Moore picks blackberries each spring. Something he’s done for a very long time. Photo: John Moore
Blackberry season has always been a planned family ritual. My father picked the routes long before the berries ripened. When the season came, he knew exactly where we would go.
We took the same narrow country roads each year. They were back roads that began as wagon paths in the 1800s. They ran along ditches, fence lines, and creek beds outside Ashdown, Arkansas. Those roads felt like a link to past generations.
Dad drove a 1963 Ford Falcon. Mom handed us a big bucket and told us the goal was simple: fill it up. My sister sat up front. I rode in the back and watched the world slip toward the woods as we left town.
There was no graceful way to pick wild blackberries. Thorns scratched your arms. Snakes, ticks, chiggers and poison ivy were part of the job. Still, the berries were worth it. They were deep purple, warm from the sun, and sweet with a little tart bite.
Dad moved down the row without hurry. He rarely spoke while we picked. Once in a while he’d point to a better patch or remind us to check under leaves. My sister and I turned the work into a quiet contest. The bucket slowly filled.
We brought the berries home and Mom turned them into cobblers, jams, and jellies. In the end, it wasn’t just about the fruit. It was about the roads, the hours with two people I loved, and the lessons my father showed without saying much.
Today my wife grows large, sweet berries from a cutting of her father’s thornless bush in Ponca City, Oklahoma. We also have wild blackberries on our 10-acre homestead. Each spring I walk the fencerows, scratches and all, and work to fill the bucket.
It’s worth it. The tradition continues, and the taste of those berries still beats anything from a store. We pick because of the fruit, the memories, and the quiet lessons passed from one season to the next.
