In my part of the world—the southwest tip of Vancouver Island—three types of blackberries grow in the wild. There’s one indigenous variety, Rubus ursinus, which appears sparsely on long single low-growing vines close to the ground and produces tiny but sweet fruit. Then there are two invasive species. Rubus laciniatus has darker, more jaggedly serrated leaves, and is thornier than the most common specimen, Rubus armeniacus, also known as the Himalayan blackberry. This type goes by three other Latin names, probably because although it originated in the Middle East, it now grows just about everywhere across the world. It has grown in every garden I’ve had, and is incredibly difficult to get rid of. But it’s delicious. So let me say: I am grateful for this abundant, free food and —the opportunity to work through my anger.
When I was growing up, anger was never expressed in a healthy way in my family. I was expected to comply and not complain. My father, normally composed, occasionally blew his top suddenly and unexpectedly, without much explanation and certainly without apology. This frightened me, but was told it was my fault for upsetting him, and my fault for being “oversensitive”. This didn’t seem fair. It confused me, outraged me. I felt trapped, so I avoided him whenever possible. Now, many years after his death, I have more insight into his character, and I hold no grudges. What I remember most is how he sang sweetly to me when I was little, and what fun we had together picking blackberries, just the two of us.
The quiet residential neighbourhood we lived in was near beach and forest. In a secluded corner of a nearby park there was one particular blackberry thicket that seemed like a forest itself. This is where my dad, on our yearly foraging jaunt, impressed me with daring feats amidst the gnarly vines. I had never known him to be a particularly athletic person, but here he was agile, strong, impervious.
Dad’s fondness for blackberries went back to his own childhood. The story I remember him telling is that when he was a kid during the Great Depression, his father was sickly, and the family struggled to make ends meet. During the summers they rented their house out and spent months in a tent in the bush, living off fish and blackberries. Hardship may have spawned Dad’s relationship with blackberries, but better times never changed his unabashed love for them.
Every summer we’d make three or four trips to our special blackberry forest, each equipped with one leather glove for grabbing thorny vines, and a wire coat hanger bent into a long hook—my dad’s special invention—for reaching the higher clusters of berries. I was dressed in a pair of thick jeans, rubber boots, and a sturdy raincoat, for prickle protection. Dad sported his old army khakis, boots, and cap. He’d enlisted for service after university but WW2 came to an end before he was ever called to duty. I’m sure he was thankful of this, as he was certainly cut out more for intellectual pursuits than armed conflict. His strikes were always verbal ones.
We hopped into our green Austin Mini knowing we’d return with a haul more voluminous than the two of us could manage to carry back by hand. In the trunk, my father stowed several large aluminum buckety things that he called kettles. (We also used them at Christmas for brewing mulled wine on the stove.) Onto the roof of the car he strapped a long, lightweight aluminum stepladder, and then off we went.
Two minutes later Dad would be hoisting the ladder onto his shoulder, and I’d be swinging the kettles as we made our way along the trail to the edge of the most dense thicket of berries, our special spot. Once there, dad didn’t set up the ladder; instead he leaned it up against the tall wall of canes. Then he’d step on a rung and push hard so that the whole ladder took down the vines in its path. He’d repeat this manoeuvre, gaining several feet or yards each time, until he’d cleared a large circle in the middle of the thicket, where the juiciest berries grew. Then he would set up the ladder properly, climb up, and begin picking. I’d pick the lower branches. Sometimes we’d trade places, especially after I outgrew him in height and could reach farther than he could.
As we picked, I’d get him to tell me about when he was young. He had loved swimming, and watching the paddlewheelers taking cargo and passengers up and down the inland lakes of British Columbia. He told me about how he had yearned to be an opera singer, but he’d had to take care of his mother. I was always so struck by his sense of duty, but saddened by his thwarted ambitions. Here in the bush though, my dad entered into a kind of reverie, and we became so engrossed in the work that eventually we stopped talking and just picked. The only thing that sent us home was when our stomachs and buckets were full. It was always so much fun to burst through the front door proudly displaying our overflowing kettles.
In the kitchen, army gear off and aprons on, we were joined by Mum for canning. This involved another of my dad’s special techniques. Since we preferred jelly to jam, we needed to strain out the tough seeds. For this, my dad used a pillowcase, the same dedicated one every year. Its hue deepened every year until it was almost black.
Mum tumbled the berries into the pillowcase and my father would squeeze and wring the squishy mass. Thick, gelatinous berry goo would ooze out through the weave, dripping and drizzling down into one of those big aluminum kettles. Mum would scoop out the detritus from the pillowcase and then pour in more berries. Sometimes my brother would show up and take part in the squeezing too, or help Mum later with measuring sugar later.
Eventually, when no more juice was forthcoming, Dad would stop, his huge hands appearing blood-soaked. He’d grin maniacally and threaten to chase me around the house like a zombie, his eyes flashing. This was his theatrical side. I loved how playful he could be. There were several more steps in the jelly-making process, but this was the best part.
As years went by, relationships grew more strained in the family, and this good kid became a defiant teen, although any outsider would have thought me polite and well-behaved. I dared to express myself verbally on occasion, but mostly I channelled my anger through shaving my hair short, wearing black, and embracing punk rock. I harboured a seething resentment of my father that didn’t abate until decades later. But blackberry picking season signalled our temporary truce. Even after Mum died we’d make our annual excursion, but never did we try making jelly without her.
I still pick blackberries every year, wherever I am in the world. By now, after over 50 years of picking, I know them well, and have a few more tricks and rules, like: wear black jeans, so the stains blend in. I can tell from a distance whether a berry is ripe, from colour, the gloss, and the size—not of the berry itself so much as the size of the little round drupelets it’s composed of, the sacs that hold the juice. Small berries can have big full, tasty drupelets, but a huge berry with big shiny drupelets is bound to be the most sweet and delicious of all.
Invariably, like the seductions of an old lover, blackberries are too sweet to resist, despite their inevitable barbs, and once I start picking, it’s hard to stop, as I pluck each fat juicy berry I can find and then spy more bunches—just out of reach. The challenge compels me to reach farther than I should, which means consequences, as I get tangled and pricked, having to tear myself away, literally, from the vines. I lick off the blood, along with sticky red juice, from my hands, and laugh at myself.
What I still don’t understand is the adaptive value of thorns on a plant with berries. Everyone—two legged, four legged or winged—who eats the fruit, will poop out seeds which can take root just about anywhere. So why make it harder for us to get to those seeds?
I am fascinated with the effects that terroir can have on blackberries. Like wine grapes (but probably not to the same degree) the soil acidity, moisture levels, timing of rain, light conditions, heat, and angle of light can all affect the fruit’s appearance, texture, and taste. I’ve found that south-facing drainage ditches provide just about the ideal growing conditions, providing optimal levels of moisture and light. The hugest, juiciest berries can be found on semi-shaded branches away from extreme heat.
Last year, the first in my partner’s and my new home, thousands of berries appeared in a huge mountainous tangle of bushes in the middle of our property. I used my ladder trick, bashing back the front vines to get to the heavily laden ones. Then, climbing up the ladder to reach high vines, I felt the ladder shift, and suddenly I was in the air. I toppled backwards, in slow motion, thinking I’d always wondered what it might feel like to fall into blackberries. I landed on my backside, cushioned by a thick layer of vines. “OUCH!!!!” I yelled. No one came running. I lay there for a few minutes, stunned. All my limbs were in working order, my back was fine, and nothing really hurt but small areas of exposed flesh. My ankles were scratched and oozing blood, because I’d worn short boots, not high ones as I usually do. My right hand was bleeding too, and one huge thorn had torn a hole in my raincoat straight through to my elbow, part of it still lodged under a welt in my skin. This was all my fault. But I wanted revenge. “You’re coming down!” I yelled, turning my back on the berries as I walked to the house to wash and dress my wounds.
That winter we began clearing. We left the ones that were growing up and around the perimeter fences, to discourage deer intrusions, but Bill went to work on the rest, wielding an electric hedge-trimmer. He made quick work of the dormant canes, and where there had been a nearly impenetrable forest with fruit even draping down from fir boughs over 30 ft high, there were now unadorned firs and some smaller trees I hadn’t even noticed before. We could now see she shape of the land, and it looked naked. But I was also excited to imagine a little tea house standing where the blackberries had reigned. I knew, however, that as the plants would begin growing again in spring, which they do without fail unless you dig up the roots in entirety. It’s just their modus operandi. My partner said, “Piece of cake. We can dig them out by hand.” I knew, from experience, that it wouldn’t be that easy. The plants were likely here long before the house was built, which means roots that are thick, deep and wide.
We didn’t get around to it until months later, when we saw shoots coming up out of the dry, hard-packed clay soil. I am not sure why we didn’t hire a digger at that point. Maybe because we both need the catharsis of digging by hand. After many hours, we’ve each made a few impressive extractions. He showed off a couple of tenacious, gnarled roots that were well over 6 feet long. There’s still more to do, and I’ll take my beautiful red-handled shovel with the sharply-pointed blade, and a pickaxe that’s almost too heavy for me to wield, and begin the slow assault. The therapeutic effects set in immediately, and afterwards, I’m euphoric.
I’ve been upset a lot this past year. Apart from the obvious worldwide situations (Covid and climate change), I have felt overwhelmed by the amount of work this property demands. How could I have not seen how overrun with weeds and invasive species it was? There is no one to blame but ourselves, but sometimes I’m angry at myself, or my partner, for reasons I can’t easily explain. I try to remind myself there’s no hurry, and how cathartic and rewarding the work can be. Suffice it to say that blackberries are not only one of the triggers but also one of the treatments for my rage, and a delicious treat after hard work.
This week, the blackberries in our local drainage ditches are at their peak. We’ve had only a few days of scant rain here since April, and our summer has been hot, so they’ve ripened early. I’ll bet the harvest doesn’t last beyond September, but last year I was picking until October. Late into the season, it takes careful work to cull ripe berries from those at every other stage of ripeness: hard, red and not likely to ripen; shriveled and shrouded in white must; withered to almost dust. I love the earthy smell of decomposing berries. It’s so evocative of the last warm days when one wants to keep living outside, but as soon as the sun goes down, the dew descends and I need to bundle up.
I picked a huge ice cream bucket full of berries yesterday in only half an hour—a personal best to be sure. They were falling right off the vine into my bucket. At home I concocted a new treat. Hauling out my old Champion juicer, I poured the berries down its gullet, slowly, and out came a rich, thick, velvety dark liquid. I spooned some into a tiny liqueur glass and had a sip. Pure nectar! And full of antioxidants, I’m sure.
Today, I did a little anger therapy today. I went out to my recently planted Zen garden, where newly sprouting blackberries are coming up in the most inconvenient spots. They seem to have a knack for it: in between rocks, from underneath stepping stones, in the middle of delicate plants whose roots shouldn’t be disturbed. So this kind of therapy requires some thought and finesse.
A few years before my father died, I realized that I couldn’t expect him to change, and that I’d have to make an effort to improve our relationship. So I did, and he softened, as did I, and we rediscovered how to spend time together. The last summer we went out picking, he gave me his old army shirt, which by then was frayed at the cuffs and had holes in the elbows.
SEE with a WHY 