As a nine year boy, I used to pick blackberries with my neighbor, Rod West.
We would pick berries in our dad's coal mine dinner buckets. Our mother's
would praise us and bake mouth watering blackberry pies. Throughout our
grade school, junior high and high school years, we would make the long
three mile walk to Homer Shriver's farm, climb a very large hill and pick
berries during the morning hours. After filling our buckets and filling our
tummies to the breaking point, we then had to walk the dusty Moody Run road,
blazing hot railroad tracks and bubbling asphalt tar road back to our homes.
When our mother's saw us at the door, they would shower praise on us as
though they had just won the Lotto. The praise, smiles and encouragement
our parents gave us for accomplishing such a feat has never left my distant
memories. Time passing, getting married, raising my own son, I encouraged
him to experience picking berries just as I had done as a boy.One day while we were rabbit hunting on a December day, we found a special patch of berries bushes that had not lost their leaves. I told my son that when next blackberry season begins, we should check these huge, strong vines for berries. The berry patch was dubbed ‘the Mojave'....... The Mojave was a blackberry patch tucked in the West Virginia hills along the old Rt. 119, just north of Morgantown. West Virginia. This is the place where my son and I picked wild blackberries during his early and late teens. My son, Joey, christen the patch, ‘The Mojave'. He even broke it down into the high and low Mojave. The Mojave was a really dry place. There was one watering hole for the cattle who grazed grass among the blackberry vines and other than that, it was dry, hot and humid. Joey and I would start picking berries at about seven in the morning and continue until our buckets were full and topped off. Joey used to talk about the special vines from which we picked blackberries. He called them devil bushes. The devil bush name came from a particular thorn that grew on the vines. It had a hook-like thorn which would not let you pull your hand back after reaching in to pick a hand full of nickel size berries. It was something like Pooh and the Honey jar. What was so different about these berries was they did not get ripe at the same time as the usual or native berry. When the native berry bush had become dried and burnt up from the full blast of summer weather, these berries were green and just starting to turn red. It would be late July, early August for these blackberry picking trips. Picking these specific berries was pure delight. The more you picked the more respect you developed for where they grew. The berries grew very large; they would average nickel size and it was not unusual to pick many the size of quarters. It only took a few to fill your hand and that was good news, because your bucket would fill very quickly. The high Mojave was located at the top of a very steep hill. Cattle would graze among the berry vines leaving a clump of berry vines here and there. The clumps were from seven to eight feet in height and ten to twenty feet in length. I always tried to have Joey pick the lower berries and I would pick the high ones. Berry picking on the high Mojave was not too bad unless we did not fill our buckets. In that case, we went down the steep hill into an overgrown field where there were clumps of vines tucked away in some very tough areas. Without cattle grazing the area, the vines, grasses, thistles and several years of dead briars would accumulate creating a mess of entanglement. It would take hours of tramping down the entanglement to reach the succulent berries. These berries, because they were not exposed to the afternoon sun, were nearly all the size of quarters. They would hang like prunes from the long stout vines and would make you even more determined to reach them. The low Mojave blackberries were the prime berries of berry picking. They were so large that they seemed not to have seeds and would melt in your mouth. Yes, berry picking the Mojave had it's draw backs: no water and scars that would take weeks to heal. Why pick blackberries? The pies, the pies, those wild West Virginia blackberry pies are one of a kind. No matter how old you get, you will never forget the pies, those Wild West Virginia blackberry pies. As with all things, time does not stand still. After my son started going to college, and has eventually completed his residency in radiology, some seventeen years had passed. A motel and army depot have been built in the area where our blackberry picking had taken place. Retirement after 30 years of inspecting coal mines in West Virginia has now given me time to reflect on the past and time to do things that I once did as a young man. I wanted to see if blackberries still grew on the Mojave. I wanted to experience something of the past, something that always made me happy. I wanted to bring a memory of my son picking berries with me and I wanted to do it while I was still physically fit. My alarm clock just rang and I am now wondering at 5 A.M. if I am out of my mind. I start to get back in bed and my wife nudges me in the ribs and says, "go get those berries". So with one leg after the other and my older body now creaking, I slid on an old pair of pants and put on my shoes. These early mornings are bone rattling to a 59 year old who spent the better part of his life inspecting coal mines, walking and crawling in muddy to rough, dry rocky conditions. However, with a good cup of coffee and a slice of toast, much of these ailments disappear. There is an old saying....You can do anything if you have enough motivation. I wanted to experience the memory of camaraderie I once had with my young son. I was always so proud of my son when he filled his bucket and never complained. To this day, my son's work ethics has proven his success. Being able to complete his residency and raise a family on a limited income was like a dream come true. I have always thought the briar patch produced some of that fortitude. Now his oldest daughter, Arin, goes berry picking with me She makes my heart leap with happiness when I see the smile on her face the moment she first sees those big beautiful blackberries. I hold my four year old granddaughter on my shoulders and spread the vines apart so that her small delicate fingers won't get scratched. When she picked her first cup, it must have looked as big as a barrel and to me it might as well have been that large. She is such a great sport. Arin shared her berries with her two year old sister who loves to eat blackberries, too. In fact, Arin will not eat a berry until her cup is full. Her heart is with her mother and dad with whom she says she is going to share. As I was saying, I really didn't know if there would even be any blackberries to pick. After all time which has passed, progress does not stand still. Getting out of my truck, I sit on the edge of my seat and slipped on my biggest size thirteen shoes on my feet. Down the dew soaked grassy hill I walked trying not to fall. I would look into the distance and hoped I might gain sight of some black berries. However the seven foot tall thistles, chest high wire grass, bramble vines, and several generations of old woody sticker vines prevented me from seeing more than a few feet in front of me. After several minutes of tramping a path, there in the mists it stood, a mountain of 7 to 8 foot high bushes with nickel size blackberries. This was a sight to behold. Catching site of these bushes which had survived over the years, immediately produced flash backs of many berry picking trips to the briar patch. My eyes began to water. I wiped away the tears but I could not hold back the flowing tears of joy. Time had not destroyed my memories and it was as though time had stood still today, and it was just for me. How many times in my life I had attempted to go back to find everything had been tore apart and nothing was the same. After composing myself, I could see the bushes appeared to have lumps of coal attached to them. I would loved to have run towards them in slow motion with music playing but it took another 15 minutes and several scratches to tramp my way to them. As I looked over the patch, I estimated that with a little luck, and no one finding them, I would be able to pick several gallons of berries over the next few weeks. I had not picked blackberries for several years so I had forgotten the wonderful adventures of the patch. Most people remember the joys of the pies, but today I was struck by reality and got stuck 3,028 times. So, why do people go back to the patch..............the pies, the pies, those mouth watering pies. The only place in America where the true blackberry grows.......the briar patch. It's amazing what some people will do or go through to pick a bucket of blackberries. Over the years, my son and I have been the only people who knew where these precious berries were located. Now as with anything that is fun and good, you want someone to share it. This year with the rediscovery of the patch, I invited my brother, and nephew to pick with me. We had a great time. It was just like it used to be when we were all growing up together. Sweating, falling down, joking, laughing and being rewarded with several gallons of berries. When my California family came to visit this summer, I took the children to pick and enjoy this wonderful experience.......picking wild West Virginia Blackberries. Now the season is over, it is time to bake those delicious pies for vacation, holidays and when we have special guests. There is only one thing left to do........it's Yum Yum Yum time. |
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