Without question, my Dads Mother made the best cobbler ever. No recipe, no measured portions, just a knack for hitting it just right every time. She lived with us and I can remember coming home from a long summer day in the woods or down at the lake, pulling up my t-shirt to form a basket, and picking fresh blackberries from the briar laden plants that grew in profusion along the fencerow that bounded our property.
Snakes would be present as well, hungry for both the berries and the mice that craved them. I would reach my hand into the thorny plants to pull the huge berries, retracting my thin arm quickly as if I would be able to successfully dodge the strike of some unseen viper. Little did I know at the time, but the common blacksnake was the only reptile lurking in the shadows. Nonpoisonous, but that is a non-issue to one who has in inclination to be fearful of such creatures.
I would carry the berries up to the house, nibbling on a few as I went, and dump them in a bowl in the kitchen sink. Leaving Mamaw to work her magic, I headed off to the shower to wash the days dirt away. Then it would happen; I would step out of the shower and be greeted by the sweetest smell that seemed to fill the air of our home. The berries had been washed, sorted, and mixed with other ingredients to create what still to me is nothing short of perfection. I would quickly grab a spoon; my hands still shriveled from the shower, and eat heartily. I can still feel the gentle crunch of the random blackberry seed, hot and alive with flavor.
It has been said that some men fly fish a long time without realizing that it isn’t the fish they are after. Sometimes, gathered around a campfire or cabin table among other fly anglers, conversation turns to past trips. Within those conversations, if you listen very carefully, you will note that a lot of the stories don’t involve the fish at all. It is the wonderful and blessed experience of living that lingers in the mind. It is the moments when memory is made of more than an action, when it has life and breath, when it imbeds itself into the heart…those are the days when heaven comes close. Those are the days that build a lifetime.
Snakes would be present as well, hungry for both the berries and the mice that craved them. I would reach my hand into the thorny plants to pull the huge berries, retracting my thin arm quickly as if I would be able to successfully dodge the strike of some unseen viper. Little did I know at the time, but the common blacksnake was the only reptile lurking in the shadows. Nonpoisonous, but that is a non-issue to one who has in inclination to be fearful of such creatures.
I would carry the berries up to the house, nibbling on a few as I went, and dump them in a bowl in the kitchen sink. Leaving Mamaw to work her magic, I headed off to the shower to wash the days dirt away. Then it would happen; I would step out of the shower and be greeted by the sweetest smell that seemed to fill the air of our home. The berries had been washed, sorted, and mixed with other ingredients to create what still to me is nothing short of perfection. I would quickly grab a spoon; my hands still shriveled from the shower, and eat heartily. I can still feel the gentle crunch of the random blackberry seed, hot and alive with flavor.
It has been said that some men fly fish a long time without realizing that it isn’t the fish they are after. Sometimes, gathered around a campfire or cabin table among other fly anglers, conversation turns to past trips. Within those conversations, if you listen very carefully, you will note that a lot of the stories don’t involve the fish at all. It is the wonderful and blessed experience of living that lingers in the mind. It is the moments when memory is made of more than an action, when it has life and breath, when it imbeds itself into the heart…those are the days when heaven comes close. Those are the days that build a lifetime.
No comments:
Post a Comment