I went to our place in the country today. I needed to get away from the twin temptations of the tv and the laptop. I parked near the old houseplace and walked down to the shack.
As I went through the upper fields, I passed the blackberry brambles. They aren't quite ready yet, for the most part, but there were some early ones already turned, and I put my book and water bottle down long enough to pick a couple of succulent handfuls of the tiny sweet berries. I swear there is no taste on earth as sweet, except perhaps that of a kiss given in love, as summer blackberries ripened in the sun in an open field. Nothing store-bought compares. They explode, disintegrate, dissolve, wash the mouth with joy, with the glory of every cloudless morning, every golden noon, every painted evening.
Picking them isn't an easy thing. If you've never done it, you may not know that blackberry brambles guard their treasures jealously. I made my requisite blood sacrifice, snagged my clothing on the thorns, stained my palms with purple blotches. As I picked, a fragment of a song lyric floated through my head, "If I die young / At least I got some chocolate on my tongue...." I smiled. It's not chocolate that is always the sweetest and the best. I'll be content with summer blackberries from a hidden field.
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And then you said.....