The blackberry bush
/The morning after Mom arrived, she shyly brought out a gift. It was wrapped in damp paper towels, newspaper, and a plastic bag.
“What do you think it is?” she asked as I carefully peeled back the layers, my hands trembling slightly.
“Well, it’s a plant. It has thorns. Oh, I know! It’s a cutting from your Dr. Van Fleet" (a climbing rose that’s been in our family for generations).
“No, not that. Try again.”
I guessed several times but never could figure out what the spindly, spiky plant was. Really, it was little more than two slender stalks and a dirty root ball.
“It’s one of Papa’s original blackberry bushes. It’s about 60 years old. I called the new owner of their house and asked if I could dig it up and bring it to you. I have another one, too, but it was too big for my suitcase. I’ll bring it next time.” (Papa was Mom's father, my grandfather).
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I hugged Mom tight. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much.”
I looked at the treasure in my hands and noticed a lone earthworm still nestled among the tangle of roots. Its presence seemed auspicious, as if it loved the plant too, and didn't want to leave; so it stayed, amidst uprooting, wrapping, and two plane rides.
“The new owner and I agreed that you’re the one who’ll treasure it most, Em,” Mom replied, hugging me back. “Someday, the blackberries for your pies will come from this.”
I grew up eating Nanny’s blackberry pies. Nanny, Mom’s mom, was the grandparent with whom I was closest. She was one of my dearest friends. She died two years ago, and, as y'all likely know, I still miss her almost daily. She (and also Mom) taught me to make her pie crust and pie, and I now make them all the time, for blackberry is also Jack's favorite.
I have written frequently about Nanny and her pies. I have made blackberry pie more times than I can count. It’s a simple pie- just four ingredients in the crust and three in the filling. It’s the sort of dish that proves that the little things matter, that god is in the details and they needn’t be fancy.
That Papa planted some blackberry bushes in a sunny spot by a storage shed on his Lake Charles land sixty years ago changed the course of our family in a way. Those bushes spread and grew and fed not only my grandparents and their children, but also their grandchildren and friends, sons- and daughters-in-law, neighbors and great grandchildren.
Now, one of those plants sits humbly in a sunny spot by a storage shed in Maryland, planted carefully and with love by Papa’s daughter and granddaughter. It is leafing out with happy abandon, and each day, when I visit it to water and check on its progress, I see family and history and love. I am reminded of the value of falling and letting yourself be picked up, of valuing the little bits of life that make it glow and shine.
