Wound count and Blackberry Wisdom

1:30 pm -
At this time I will estimate the number of scratches and small puncture wounds from bramble battle to be approximately thirty on each arm and perhaps a half-dozen on each leg. My forearms have the feel of a little kid about to break out in chicken pox. Mind you, some of them are very small--no larger than a mosquito bite--but remember, each dot or line represents a snag, scrape or poke from vines which seem to have an almost antagonistic attitude about them....or are they merely challenging me?

....after all, one could be philosophical about this whole berry picking business, which is what I found myself doing as I picked blackberries last evening. There were metaphors everywhere I looked.

For example, the best berries--big, juicy and ripe--are hidden behind the foliage; they are not brazenly displayed. Novice berry pickers pass them by, but I know better; I've been doing this for years and consider myself to be something of a blackberry authority. One has to forage around a bit and pull back a few thorny branches--and sustain a scratch or two (or a dozen) to find the best fruit. And no, you can't wear falconer's gloves to pick berries: you may as well use a hammer. Long sleeves and long pants help, but it had best be an old shirt or pants, because fabric will snag much more readily than skin. My boyfriend thinks I'm nuts to pick berries wearing something minimal like a tank top and skirt or shorts (don't you, Duane?) Ah yes...well...Jungle Jane here is telling you that those vines and stickers separate the mice from the men--or in this case--the real berry afficianados from the wimps.

Timing is important. If one is impatient and picks a berry before it's ripe, it will be sour. Sure, you can try taking home a load of unripe berries and letting them ripen in a bag, but they just don't turn out the same. They lack flavor. Sometimes they just sort of rot and never get sweet. Conversely, if you wait too long, the berries will be sweet all right, but they are very delicate and don't have much time left. And then there is the whole science of making preserves: underripe berries will make jam that's as stiff as taffy; the overripe berries have lost all their pectin and the resulting product will be a runny mess--or pancake syrup, depending upon how optimistic your outlook is. I happen to like blackberry syrup better than maple syrup--or any other flavor for that matter. Thus, regardless of how my preserving efforts go, I will have something worth spreading on toast or pouring on pancakes.

Don't be greedy. Save something for the other hikers and leave the really soft, overripe fruit where it is--it will make a nice meal for a bird or other wild animal.

These thoughts came to me as I reached up, leaned over, or knelt down and gathered blackberries. Other thoughts rallied about in my head as well. I enjoyed the relative peace of doing something alone, a time-out from work and other people. As the last light of day began to fade, I heard music: two times in a row it was The Moody Blues--Days of Future Passed. I heard "Tuesday Afternoon", "Twilight Time" and "The Sunset". The trail closes at sunset, so I mulled that over a bit.

Exactly when is sunset? How much light must remain to still be "twilight"? I let the crickets decide. First one cricket began to chirp slowly, tentatively, a solitary call to the other crickets to come out and do whatever it is crickets do (they are probably calling out for sex--and no, it's not a horny mind telling you this, gentle reader; it's just one of those facts--animals make noises for a number of reasons: sex, territory, a warning to enemies or a distress call to other members of their species--but most likely it's sex). The first cricket was joined by a second, and not long after that a third cricket threw in its two cents' worth.

I decided then that it is officially Sunset on the Springwater Trail when I can hear three crickets; hence it shall hitherto be referred to as the "Three Cricket Rule". Hey, the Eskimos supposedly coined the term "Three Dog Night" when it got cold enough outside to bring three sled dogs into the igloo to help warm it up. I suppose I've just committed some kind of political/demographic faux pas...but hey, this is my journal. You want something P.C.? Go read the New York Times....and I'm sure there's something that will offend someone there as well.

So this is it for today; my manuscript on the Wisdom of Blackberries is about to conclude. To summarize: Nothing that's worthwhile seems to come without at least some sort of work, price, or risk attached. Wild blackberries are free: Nature doesn't charge by the pound. However, it takes a bit of patience, timing and skill to claim the sweet reward, and you really have to love blackberries to put up with so much inconvenience.

It doesn't hurt to have some witch hazel to dab on the scratches, either.