The extreme heat of this July has resurrected memories of the blackberry picking of my childhood. Long before I picked my first berry my mother had spent many a summer in Maries County, the county of her birth picking the deep purple, luscious fruit with her mother and siblings. Most likely out of need, the Schwegler family would travel to Maries County, Missouri to visit with family. In July, when the fruit ripened, they would don their “picking” outfits, go to their favorite thicket of bushes, and spend several hours filling their buckets to the brim. Long-sleeved shirts and pants were called for. If not, long, angry scratches resulted from reaching into the brambles for those plum morsels of blackberry goodness. After the trek, hours were spent in the kitchen brewing jars of blackberry jams and jellies that would last into the next year.

 My family spent many summer weekends traveling to Osage County where my grandfather, Wright Schwegler, had a clubhouse on the Gasconade River. My mother continued the tradition of picking blackberries. And oh how I hated that tradition. I can’t think of anything worse than putting on long sleeves and pants and hiking in the heat of July. Our picking crew consisted of my mom, brother Bill, and me. My dad drove us to the same location because my mom didn’t drive. We would hike up a long hill to a massive thicket of Blackberry brambles hiding their jewels among their thorns. I would be soaked in sweat; not a comfortable feeling for a city-bred, teenager. No matter how hard I tried I still wound up with long slivers of red scratches on my arms, despite the long sleeves, and my hands were covered with wounds from the long thorns of the bushes. I don’t recall my mother making jams or jellies so we must have quickly eaten the fruit.

 Some of my best memories of those days at the clubhouse include warm salads made with fresh greens and tomatoes picked from my grandfather’s garden smothered in Viva Italian dressing. A short walk up the road would result in fresh ears of corn to be boiled and slathered with butter. Best of all, catfish tails from the fish caught on the trotlines the night before were covered in cornmeal and deep-fried to golden perfection. There are no bones in the tail of the catfish. My brother and I weren’t allowed to eat the other parts of the fish because the meat contained bones; my mother was deathly afraid we would choke on fish bones. There were other things we weren’t allowed to do, which is a testament to my mother’s will to see us safely through our childhood.

Unfortunately, the tradition of blackberry picking wasn’t passed on to my sons. Today, if one wants, you can have blackberries on the menu most days as they are grown worldwide and shipped to the United States for consumption. I’m not sure the blackberries we get today are as good as those picked straight from the source, but they are easier to come by. And despite being uncomfortable, I still have fond memories of those days so many years ago spent with my family in pursuit of blackberries ripened in July.