mission accomplished

The berry picking was not going well. This years crop was not what I had hoped and dreamed of it being. Aaron called at lunchtime and I was the bearer of the bad news.

"Woman, you get enough to make me a pie!"

That was all he said.

So with renewed determination and my Mom watching the kids, I ventured out again in the evening, finding a few spots along side the road by the river and found the mother load. Well, actually, the bucket load. For those of you who have never had privilege of picking blackberries, let me tell you what it's like.

The vines grow which and whatever way they want. They have thorns on them that no matter how careful you are, you get poked and scratched until your arms and legs look like you got in a fight with the bushes and the bushes won.

Sidenote: your legs only get scratched if your dumb enough to be wearing capris and flip-flops like I was. You need to fore-go fashion and wear a beekeepers suit and military issue boots if at all possible.

The last thing you need to know about blackberry picking is that spiders like to weave their webs in them bushes. And if you don't see any spiders, don't you worry, they are still there, hiding behind the berry you're about to pick and then they're crawling up your arm before you can yell obscenities at it. And then you're jumping around trying to shake it off, then your flip-flop falls off and you're now hopping barefoot on those thorny vines. And the group of middle-aged men playing golf across the road are staring at you and your pregnant self trying to pick blackberries for your husband.

But I picked enough to make my man a pie.

And all were happy in the land of Smithville.