I love blackberries. No, I'm not writing about communication devices but about the original blackberries, those succulent dark purple berries that do so well in cobblers and jam. I remember going with my parents and brothers to a friend's farm in Northern West Virginia as a preteen. We hiked across a field and up a hill to a bramble infested area where we discovered a treasure-trove of blackberries. Why does that day linger in my memory?
Earlier this week, as I mowed the grass in my yard, I spied familiar berries in an area that had grown out of control this spring as my sons mowed the grass. So, at noon today, I took a bowl from the cupboard and hiked the the fifty feet across my level yard to the blackberry patch. Picking blackberries carries a cost. The most treasured moments in life do. Scratches on my legs and arms testify that the vines do not give up their fruits without a struggle. I picked only enough to fill my small bowl. Those berries tasted great; I thanked God for this treat.