The Fourth of July always marked the start of blackberry season when I was growing up in Kentucky.
Several mornings a week, my brothers and I were given empty gallon-sized tin pails that formerly contained Tenderflake Lard.
We’d start right after daylight to beat the relentless Kentucky summer heat and humidity. We were to fill each pail with blackberries and return home only when the pails were full.
Despite the chiggers, snakes, and hurtful pricks from the annoying vines that grew abundantly on mountainsides near our home, it wasn’t the worst of chores.
The berries were generally abundant and we would often finish by 10 a.m. or so.
My mom sold a gallon of berries for 50 cents, later raising the price to 75 cents. The proceeds went into the family budget, or the purse my mom kept hidden under her mattress that she thought nobody knew about, I’m not sure which.
Our payday came when mom would take some of the berries and “sugar” them by placing a fair amount of sugar on top and putting them in the refrigerator overnight.
Via a process called mastication, the sugar melted into the blackberry juices and created a most delicious syrup.
From there, you could use the berries to top a piece of pound cake, or just eat ‘em straight from the bowl.
The worst whupping I ever got was the time my buddies wanted me to go with them to join a pickup football game when I was supposed to be picking berries.
This seemed like a much better gig than spending all morning toiling in the blackberry patch, but what to do to make it happen?
I cannot to this day say how my silly little 10-year-old brain came up with the idea, but I started grabbing handfuls of green berries and stuffing them in the lard pail as quickly as possible.
I had the can nearly filled in no time, then hid my dastardly deed by putting a layer of ripe blackberries on top.
Again, I was 10 years old. I have no idea what made me think I would get away with this scam. I left my pail on the back porch and raced off to play touch football. Maybe I thought I would talk my way out of it later.
If so, I was seriously wrong.
That, Knuckleheads, was worst whupping I ever got.