Some time ago, before herbicides, global warming, and UV rays were part of our vernacular, my mom would take us blackberry picking. This summer ritual was always spontaneous and arbitrary, like most of my childhood “Dick and Jane” summers. The idea would start at the start of a hot, slow afternoon in early June, and somehow my mom would recognize it as a great day for berry picking. I would immediately fill our once-grandfather’s armored cooler with fat ice cubes from an aluminum tray and “fresh” cold water from the tap, while we snatched up buckets, buckets, and a neighborhood kid. Then we’d all pile into the truck, roll down the windows, and get out. It was all that fast. No fuss, no attention to detail, no cell phone to remember, just grab your red hat and go, seize the moment and capture the memory.

I have no idea where we were going on those spontaneous summer days; I was young and I didn’t care. I do remember the bushes growing profusely along the country lanes, near the pastures where brown-eyed cows and goofy-looking egrets grazed and gleaned and the day was long and we were happy. Yellow butterflies fluttered over the grassy fields of dandelions and buttercups, and if we lingered there a little at night, fireflies lit up the shadows like diamonds. The fences where the berries grew were barbed wire and ripped our clothes, but that didn’t matter because the best berries were always on the other side. Sometimes we would also meet other families in the field picking berries. I guess the good old berry picking days weren’t a secret.

The only concern my mom had was snakes. I don’t think we’ve ever seen one, but we did see plenty of “snake spit” on these berry picking excursions. “Snake Spit” was a very scary thing; You knew you were looking at a berry bush that had been, perhaps only moments before, visited by a noxious reptile! I have since learned, I am sorry to say, that the white foam was never snake saliva, but a mass of bubbles made by an insect, a salivating insect, and the insect was probably inside the foam hiding from us. Glad I wasn’t privy to that trivia back then, “snake spit” involved a lot more drama.

After about three hours of driving across the field picking berries and drinking water, our buckets were full, the cooler was empty, and we were hungry; it was time to go home. We sat motionless in the backseat of the truck with buckets of berries wedged between our scraped knees, watching wearily for signs of life in the buckets. Little things moved among the berries, things we’d rather not have in our shoe cabinet but kept us entertained on the way home. After a quick rinse when we got home we found little bowls and the sugar canister and ate our reward with spoons and smiles. What was left, my mom became a shoemaker. My mom had just spent the whole day playing with berries and kids, creating this keepsake.