Blackberries
By James Walsh
April 15, 2023
April 15, 2023
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
—Seamus Heaney, “Blackberry-Picking”
I shuffle to the breakfast table, joints engaging reluctantly. Lately, when sleep comes, it’s a hesitant visitor—unsure if it will stay. Not like in my youth, when a dead-to-the-world midnight-to-noon snooze was a regular occurrence. I turn my focus to the clamshell packaging of my breakfast blackberries, so plump that they must surely be genetically modified, but this only leads to speculation about the differences in our expiration dates. I take a bite and the purple pillows yield, releasing a burst of sweetness and seed, transporting me back 50 years and more.
“C’mon Jimmy, let’s go!”
My sisters waited impatiently, shiny metal buckets in hand, palms already glistening with sweat. At this point in the summer our skin was as dark as our genetic makeup would allow, which meant mostly pink with freckles that coalesced to a chimera of a tan. It was August, and the cracked asphalt of Filip Boulevard shimmered in the heat. The air was still, a blanket of silence enlivened only by the mechanical whir of the cicadas. The hydrangeas bowed their heads, weary in their dusty blues and pinks. Even the oaks and elms seemed defeated by the relentless sun. No matter. We would brave it all, like Stanley in his quest through the African jungles in search of Livingstone. We did every year. Because at the end of our perilous backwoods trek, our pails would be filled with ripe, glorious blackberries.
My older sister, Colleen, was always the boss and lead organizer of these expeditions. Two years my senior, she had the air of authority my younger sister Eileen and I lacked. In a few years, she would do what firstborns have done since time immemorial—rebel and take the heat, allowing the two of us to fly under the radar. Her lovely name had been rudely altered to “Gog” by us kids, an epithet stemming from Eileen’s early speech problems that kept her from anything close to the true pronunciation. For now, Colleen led us out the back sliding door of our 1950s rambler, her brown bobbed hair bouncing decisively.
Our house sat on a one-half acre suburban lot, steeply sloped in the front and dotted with stately trees. The driveway was so steep that my father, on returning home from work in the winter time, would need to approach its ascent with the tactical zeal of an astronaut on re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere. The house itself, upon reflection, could have been any brick and wood-sided rambler from the time period, as if homes of this ilk simply sprouted from the suburban soil in tune with the crescendo of the baby boom. But this one was home, and it was special for that reason alone. Plus, the toil for its construction had been provided by my father and a chorus of other Walsh men, and it was backed by woodlands that we were sure must be magical—like every time you turned your back, the trees would whisper to each other. Once, in the wake of a summer storm, I saw the mist rising from the edge of the woods coalesce into a vision of a sword-wielding rider on horseback, equal parts entrancing and menacing, and I was glad to be viewing it from the safety of the family room window, unsure why the others weren’t as alarmed as myself.
A small creek ran through the woods, which was traversed by a couple of rickety bridges. On returning as an adult, it’s clear one could easily just stride across this trickle of dirty water, but at the time it seemed like our only hope was to skitter across the loose collections of two-by-fours and planking built by some mysterious grownups, probably from an ancient civilization. Beyond the creek lay Frankenstein’s Graveyard, an outcropping of gray, flaking shale. The somber pile of slick, gray stone for some reason reminded us of the monster’s last resting place. Once coined, the moniker was never again questioned, and it became a focal point for navigation in the backwoods and a favorite meeting place for our rag-tag troupe of neighborhood kids. None of us actually believed that a monster lay beneath the stones, but no one ever went there alone—just in case.
After crossing the creek and graveyard, the russet-colored dirt path led uphill to the clearing where the berry patch lay on a steep hillslope. Looking back, the patch was modest in size, but at the time it seemed limitless, the bounty constrained only by the size of our buckets. High overhead crackled the gleaming high-tension power lines responsible for the clearing, a symphony of electromagnetic radiation one can only hope was benign towards our molecular biology. Beyond lay some fencing and the dull roar of traffic on Interstate 77 running north-south, ferrying travelers into or out of downtown Cleveland. That was forbidden ground, of course, but why even bother, when the promised land lay well before it?
Once in sight of the berry patch, our trio would quickly disperse to stake out the best areas for picking, and the world was so perfect at that moment that any thoughts of improvement would be blasphemy. The fruit ranged from deep reds to the coveted eggplant hues that signaled maximum sweetness, and our eyes were focused, laser-like, on the densest clusters of the latter. The race to fill our buckets was on, and whatever chatter had accompanied our trek to this point was reduced to the occasional “ouch” of someone getting pricked by the thorny sentinels guarding the treasure. Most alarming would be the occasional gasp, which could mean only one thing—a spider. Almost always, it was the abundant Daddy Long Legs, startling but harmless. Less common, but far more menacing, were those of beetle-black body slashed by aggressive yellow markings. They were an inch long and waited like assassins in the center of some of the bushes, their webbing forming the connective tissue of some dark nightmare. These nameless menaces, combined with the rasping thorns, were the only factors that applied the brakes to an otherwise unrelenting dash to see who could fill their bucket fastest.
We each had a healthy respect for arachnids, perhaps me above all. This was not helped by my maternal grandmother. Often a curt and caustic figure, she could be prone to brief bouts of joviality and mischief, especially with regards to me, her favored grandson. One year as a Halloween gift she bought me an album of spooky sounds and songs, its cover forever etched in my mind’s eye: a giant black-and-yellow tarantula poised to strike. So traumatized was I by this gift that for years I dreaded passing the spot in our hallway at home where she had unveiled it. Later in life she would save real-life tarantulas in jars filled with formaldehyde, caught by her own hand off the doorstep of their desert home outside Tucson where she had dragged my grandfather for a decade during my adolescence. He was a docile figure, happy as long as there was a case of PBR and a deck of cards at hand. I can only imagine what his life was like with my grandmother. She, a former flapper, chain-smoking with a pet monkey draped over her shoulder during my childhood years, was a strange mix of kindness and terror. She was a friend to the friendless, even harboring an illegal Italian immigrant named Giuseppe in the attic of their Euclid house for years and befriending others on the outskirts of society. This generosity did not extend to all mankind, however. She was often rude to my mother and sisters, singling me out for favor. She had the air of a person who was regularly disappointed in those around her, and I’m afraid I ultimately fell into that bin like all the others. But, for the time, I shone like a star in her eyes and tried to keep my fears, of spiders and other things, from the scrutiny of her piercing gaze, while returning to the task at hand.
The berry-picking continued, unabated, until our pails were near full to the brim, our fingers stained to beetroot from berry juice and blood from our valiantly acquired wounds. We walked home, retracing our steps through the forest as fast as we could, but never fast enough. The dense clusters would begin to turn as soon as they were picked. By the time we passed Frankenstein’s Graveyard and forded the creek, the faint, sweet smell of earth and rot wafted from the buckets.
Now, as I enter my 62nd year, I sense myself back on the wooded path, feel the weight of the bucket in my hands, inhale the telltale odor. I glance back, fleetingly, towards the expectant pile of slick gray stone, before breaking into a hobbled dash.
—Seamus Heaney, “Blackberry-Picking”
I shuffle to the breakfast table, joints engaging reluctantly. Lately, when sleep comes, it’s a hesitant visitor—unsure if it will stay. Not like in my youth, when a dead-to-the-world midnight-to-noon snooze was a regular occurrence. I turn my focus to the clamshell packaging of my breakfast blackberries, so plump that they must surely be genetically modified, but this only leads to speculation about the differences in our expiration dates. I take a bite and the purple pillows yield, releasing a burst of sweetness and seed, transporting me back 50 years and more.
“C’mon Jimmy, let’s go!”
My sisters waited impatiently, shiny metal buckets in hand, palms already glistening with sweat. At this point in the summer our skin was as dark as our genetic makeup would allow, which meant mostly pink with freckles that coalesced to a chimera of a tan. It was August, and the cracked asphalt of Filip Boulevard shimmered in the heat. The air was still, a blanket of silence enlivened only by the mechanical whir of the cicadas. The hydrangeas bowed their heads, weary in their dusty blues and pinks. Even the oaks and elms seemed defeated by the relentless sun. No matter. We would brave it all, like Stanley in his quest through the African jungles in search of Livingstone. We did every year. Because at the end of our perilous backwoods trek, our pails would be filled with ripe, glorious blackberries.
My older sister, Colleen, was always the boss and lead organizer of these expeditions. Two years my senior, she had the air of authority my younger sister Eileen and I lacked. In a few years, she would do what firstborns have done since time immemorial—rebel and take the heat, allowing the two of us to fly under the radar. Her lovely name had been rudely altered to “Gog” by us kids, an epithet stemming from Eileen’s early speech problems that kept her from anything close to the true pronunciation. For now, Colleen led us out the back sliding door of our 1950s rambler, her brown bobbed hair bouncing decisively.
Our house sat on a one-half acre suburban lot, steeply sloped in the front and dotted with stately trees. The driveway was so steep that my father, on returning home from work in the winter time, would need to approach its ascent with the tactical zeal of an astronaut on re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere. The house itself, upon reflection, could have been any brick and wood-sided rambler from the time period, as if homes of this ilk simply sprouted from the suburban soil in tune with the crescendo of the baby boom. But this one was home, and it was special for that reason alone. Plus, the toil for its construction had been provided by my father and a chorus of other Walsh men, and it was backed by woodlands that we were sure must be magical—like every time you turned your back, the trees would whisper to each other. Once, in the wake of a summer storm, I saw the mist rising from the edge of the woods coalesce into a vision of a sword-wielding rider on horseback, equal parts entrancing and menacing, and I was glad to be viewing it from the safety of the family room window, unsure why the others weren’t as alarmed as myself.
A small creek ran through the woods, which was traversed by a couple of rickety bridges. On returning as an adult, it’s clear one could easily just stride across this trickle of dirty water, but at the time it seemed like our only hope was to skitter across the loose collections of two-by-fours and planking built by some mysterious grownups, probably from an ancient civilization. Beyond the creek lay Frankenstein’s Graveyard, an outcropping of gray, flaking shale. The somber pile of slick, gray stone for some reason reminded us of the monster’s last resting place. Once coined, the moniker was never again questioned, and it became a focal point for navigation in the backwoods and a favorite meeting place for our rag-tag troupe of neighborhood kids. None of us actually believed that a monster lay beneath the stones, but no one ever went there alone—just in case.
After crossing the creek and graveyard, the russet-colored dirt path led uphill to the clearing where the berry patch lay on a steep hillslope. Looking back, the patch was modest in size, but at the time it seemed limitless, the bounty constrained only by the size of our buckets. High overhead crackled the gleaming high-tension power lines responsible for the clearing, a symphony of electromagnetic radiation one can only hope was benign towards our molecular biology. Beyond lay some fencing and the dull roar of traffic on Interstate 77 running north-south, ferrying travelers into or out of downtown Cleveland. That was forbidden ground, of course, but why even bother, when the promised land lay well before it?
Once in sight of the berry patch, our trio would quickly disperse to stake out the best areas for picking, and the world was so perfect at that moment that any thoughts of improvement would be blasphemy. The fruit ranged from deep reds to the coveted eggplant hues that signaled maximum sweetness, and our eyes were focused, laser-like, on the densest clusters of the latter. The race to fill our buckets was on, and whatever chatter had accompanied our trek to this point was reduced to the occasional “ouch” of someone getting pricked by the thorny sentinels guarding the treasure. Most alarming would be the occasional gasp, which could mean only one thing—a spider. Almost always, it was the abundant Daddy Long Legs, startling but harmless. Less common, but far more menacing, were those of beetle-black body slashed by aggressive yellow markings. They were an inch long and waited like assassins in the center of some of the bushes, their webbing forming the connective tissue of some dark nightmare. These nameless menaces, combined with the rasping thorns, were the only factors that applied the brakes to an otherwise unrelenting dash to see who could fill their bucket fastest.
We each had a healthy respect for arachnids, perhaps me above all. This was not helped by my maternal grandmother. Often a curt and caustic figure, she could be prone to brief bouts of joviality and mischief, especially with regards to me, her favored grandson. One year as a Halloween gift she bought me an album of spooky sounds and songs, its cover forever etched in my mind’s eye: a giant black-and-yellow tarantula poised to strike. So traumatized was I by this gift that for years I dreaded passing the spot in our hallway at home where she had unveiled it. Later in life she would save real-life tarantulas in jars filled with formaldehyde, caught by her own hand off the doorstep of their desert home outside Tucson where she had dragged my grandfather for a decade during my adolescence. He was a docile figure, happy as long as there was a case of PBR and a deck of cards at hand. I can only imagine what his life was like with my grandmother. She, a former flapper, chain-smoking with a pet monkey draped over her shoulder during my childhood years, was a strange mix of kindness and terror. She was a friend to the friendless, even harboring an illegal Italian immigrant named Giuseppe in the attic of their Euclid house for years and befriending others on the outskirts of society. This generosity did not extend to all mankind, however. She was often rude to my mother and sisters, singling me out for favor. She had the air of a person who was regularly disappointed in those around her, and I’m afraid I ultimately fell into that bin like all the others. But, for the time, I shone like a star in her eyes and tried to keep my fears, of spiders and other things, from the scrutiny of her piercing gaze, while returning to the task at hand.
The berry-picking continued, unabated, until our pails were near full to the brim, our fingers stained to beetroot from berry juice and blood from our valiantly acquired wounds. We walked home, retracing our steps through the forest as fast as we could, but never fast enough. The dense clusters would begin to turn as soon as they were picked. By the time we passed Frankenstein’s Graveyard and forded the creek, the faint, sweet smell of earth and rot wafted from the buckets.
Now, as I enter my 62nd year, I sense myself back on the wooded path, feel the weight of the bucket in my hands, inhale the telltale odor. I glance back, fleetingly, towards the expectant pile of slick gray stone, before breaking into a hobbled dash.
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James Walsh is a writer of prose, poetry and songs who resides in the Twin Cities. He is currently working on a collection of memoirs related to his childhood in Cleveland, Ohio.
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