Thursday, December 12th

Life is sometimes like a blackberry patch.

That was the great epiphany that came to me last week while I was in the midst of harvesting the purplish-black fruit of summer.

The annual appearance of the rubus allegheniensis — the blackberry — is a late July and early August treat. The prolific plants grow throughout our hardwood forests and we try our best to harvest plenty of the berries for eating fresh, making jam, freezing and making wine.

It was a cool evening last week when my wife Sherry and I — with ice cream pails in hand — started on a patch that covers both sides of a hilltop field. It was quiet and peaceful and were we serenaded by the chirping of a cricket and bird song.

We got a late start because I was late getting home from work. In typical fashion my mind was busy with all that had to be done and all that was not done.