Granny and the Briar Patch

Picking wild blackberries on the rocky tops of the Smoky Mountains is a backwoods tradition. It is a pastime from the era when the Cumberland Mountains of Tennessee became the namesake of an English duke. When early American surveyors stood atop limestone cliffs and looked over the early morning fog of Appalachia, they might have had a few Cherokee Native American guides to help them over the mists and the blackberry briars, but even the most stoic of explorers might have cracked a smile if they could have only looked into the future.

The last official weekend of summer in the mountains is always the final week of August. Atop the bluffs and the lonely pines and above the foggy bottoms where the mists and tendrils try to climb above the valleys, family traditions are hard to break.

Granny has always been the figurehead and the cheerleader of family traditions that arrive with the changing seasons. She is also a determined purveyor of the tall tales of the mountains that can become hillbilly holidays. On one occasion, the notion of sharing and teaching became even more appealing when the elderly but spry family matriarch was able to tear the grandkids, and even a few of the older folks, away from their phones.

Many believe the last of the blackberries are the sweetest of all. Others are convinced the blackberries of midsummer are the most plump and full of flavor. Granny, however, knew just as her grandmother knew; the final fruit of the season always holds every moment of sunshine, every rainy day, and every breath of breeze the good Lord brought into the summer.

Harvesting blackberries in the mountains is tricky. This is because the blackberry is almost a forbidden fruit. Mother Nature has her treasures and she protects her very best with a thorny system of self-defense.

Many folks do not realize that the blackberry is actually a member of the rose family. Rose bushes have the protection of thorns, as do many of the more precious cultivations of gifted gardeners, but the wild blackberries that thrive deep in briar patches are the best fruit of all.

On the last weekend before Labor Day, Granny gathered her troops. As usual, Granny had to bait the trap and offer promises of southern fried chicken and dumplings with a big helping of string green beans and mashed potatoes, but the real bait and the trick to get everyone to come out was in the promise of wild blackberry cobbler.

Of course, the blackberry forage was enough to draw most of the girls, which did include the aunts and sisters-in-law and other stragglers of females from all ages. To wrangle in the men and the boys, however, Granny needed more than the promise of good food and gossip.

As always in the mountains and almost everywhere else, the men and boys of the family liked to swagger and then speculate. A few of the men, however, were prone to pulling corks and sipping whiskey. Understanding this aspect of men in the world of women was where Granny kept her best ammunition for getting what she wanted; and with the Tennessee briar patches being extra thorny, Granny was ready to reach deep in her arsenal of inspiration.

The story of the lost Whiskey Rebellion payroll that never made it out of the Cumberland Mountains was a perfect mystery to coax the menfolk out onto the trail to look for signs of the century-old missing payroll of gold. It was also a good enough ploy—on most fine weather days of the last of summer—to get the men into the briars and to teach the younger boys some of the finer aspects of feminine wisdom.

When the day of the blackberry pilgrimage began, the turnout was better than Granny expected. All of the girls were ready for the hike in the woods, but because of the story of the lost Whiskey Rebellion payroll, most of the men and boys were also ready for some speculation, quest, and adventure.

The trouble with hunting and capturing wild blackberries is always with the briars. Many folks from the mountains will claim there is not a more fierce and thorny adversary in the world of botanical nature than the blackberry briars of East Tennessee. Another trouble with the quest of blackberries and briars is the stubborn mazes that the blackberry bushes inevitably create. This parable goes nicely with the story of the Whiskey Rebellion payroll. Apparently, George Washington himself directed his couriers to the Cumberland Gap to avoid capture by bandits—but according to Granny—most of the gold never made it out of Tennessee because the federal boys never made past the temptation of moonshine.

By late afternoon on the day of the wild blackberry and briar patch quest for adventure, most of the men and boys were suffering from multiple briar scratches and were bleeding with defeat and disappointment. Not even one lost coin from the Whiskey Rebellion came out of the fable when the older men gave up and started down the mountain. This, however, was part of the plan. With all the other girls of all ages gathered and watching, Granny began her lesson for the younger boys who did not retreat from the mountain and did not give up the quest.

“It is easy to slip through the briars and brambles of life as a man,” Granny explained. “But only if a boy can begin to understand early that women are smarter than men and are truly like the last blackberries of summer. Sometimes hard to get at, but always full of flavor, character, and just enough sweetness to get through any briar patch or any upcoming winter.