Some time ago, before herbicides, global warming, and ultraviolet rays were part of our vernacular, my mother took us to pick blackberries. This summer ritual was always spontaneous and arbitrary, as almost everything happened in the summers of my “Dick and Jane” childhood. The idea would start at the beginning of a slow, hot afternoon in early June, and somehow my mom would recognize it as a great day to pick berries. I immediately filled our armored cooler that once belonged to my grandfather with thick ice cubes from an aluminum tray and cold “fresh” water from the tap, while we drank buckets, buckets, and a neighborhood kid. Then we would all pile into the truck, roll down the windows, and get out. Everything was that fast. No hassle, no attention to detail, no cell phone to remember, just grab your red hat and go, seizing the moment and capturing the memory.

I have no idea where we went on those spontaneous summer days; I was young and I didn’t care. I do remember bushes growing thick along the sides of country roads, near pastures where brown-eyed cows and strange-looking egrets grazed and gleaned and the day was long and we were happy. Yellow butterflies fluttered over fields of dandelion grass and buttercups, and if we were there a little at night, fireflies lit up the shadows like diamonds. The fences where the berries grew had barbed wire and they ripped our clothes, but that never mattered because the best berries were always on the other side. Sometimes we would meet other families in the field who were also picking berries. I guess good berry picking days weren’t a secret.

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

After about three hours of driving through the fields picking berries and drinking water, our buckets were full, the fridge was empty, and we were hungry; it was time to go home. We sat in the backseat of the truck with cubes of berries wedged between our scraped knees and watched wearily for signs of life in the cubes. Little things were moving among the berries, things that we would rather not have in our cobbler but that kept us entertained on the way home. After a quick rinse when we got home, we found small bowls and the can of sugar and ate our reward with spoons and smiles. Whatever was left, my mom became a shoemaker. My mom had just spent the whole day playing with the berries and the children, creating this memory.