Cord Byrd: “on still another note, it seems like such a short time ago that we rang in the New Year. It is almost July, and the…”

“on still another note, it seems like such a short time ago that we rang in the New Year. It is almost July, and the midpoint of the year has passed. How quickly we have gone from gray skies, lowering clouds, and seemingly incessant rain, with some snow, some hail, strong winds, to bright sunshine and the first fruits and vegetables of the season. Already the brief moment of the wild strawberries, those tender morsels of condensed sunshine and spring showers, has passed, but juicy blackberries are ripening along their protective bramble arches, ready for picking in time to fill a pie that may grace a festive Fourth of July picnic. In West Virginia, whole families can be spotted, buckets in hand, along the fence rows where brambles grow, especially those old rail fences, gathering blackberries for pies and jam. Of course, the younger the picker, the more blackberries that end up inside the picker rather than inside the bucket, but that is just one of the messy, finger-staining joys of summertime. And the fingers are stained, as are the lips and the chins and the drippings on the clothing. When I think of the Fourth of July, visions of family picnics crowned by the very literal fruits of that berry-picking labor are among the many happy thoughts that surface.”