Blackberry picking at our place has been exceptionally good this year, and I now know the secret to it — have your land logged and let the remains go for a summer or two. The result will be vines galore.

Lest anyone doubt how prolific is my blackberry patch, allow me: one afternoon last week I simply stood at the edge of a field in shorts and flip flops and filled half a bucket. That, as any berry picker of any consequence knows, is not the norm. The norm is fully-cloaked and shod in your husband’s best snake stomping boots, inching your way toward center in hopes of gathering a handful.

This year our vines are dotted with magenta-colored fruit at eye-level, ground-level and every other level as far as my tri-focaled eyes can see. That’s why I am picking with determination, the kind that will hopefully result in jam jars and a good many Christmas gifts for the men in my family (who are generally hard to buy for).

Blackberry picking, however, is not easy. It is work. Wild blackberries ripen on briars, in case you blueberry pickers don’t know. And, yes, I have heard of the thornless varieties of blackberry plants, though I cannot imagine the pluck without the plight. Surely some things are best left alone.

There is, after all, a certain nostalgia associated with berry picking. It is similar in nature to hanging a load of laundry on a backyard clothesline or churning ice cream by hand. To do those things these days is a defiant decision to remain on an old path, but the joys of berry picking go beyond nostalgia. Experts tell us that picking can help you turn off your brain in a very good way.

It seems that there’s a network of neurons located in our brains (the Reticular Activating System, or RAS) which is responsible for detecting environmental stimuli and then reporting its findings back to the brain. The RAS is always scanning for patterns, and when it detects a repetitive one like “reach, pick, drop; reach, pick, drop” the RAS calms the brain and allows it to veg out.

Now you know why an activity like berry picking can be relaxing.

But I don’t tell my compadres that. I tell them to put more berries into their baskets than into their bellies (as they try to lick away the evidence).

I tell them to lift up the bramble at the bottom and push back the clusters of leaves to find the best blackberries.

I tell them to press the berry just enough to test for ripeness. Pluck here, pluck there, and a pass on past-prime blackberries.

I tell them about escaping through the back door at daybreak when they were babies and picking before breakfast.

I tell them about bags of tame ones in the frozen section at Walmart, and Daughter No. 1 says she’s heard they’re really big.

I tell them (again) about my only sure chigger defense — diluted Clorox. I’m not sure my son-in-law understands the seriousness of the issue.

I tell them I will make a cobbler if they pick enough, if they’d like.

Yeah, they’d like.

And after an hour of turning our backs on the world and becoming one with nature as foragers, eight of us gather around the table hot, dirty, and hungry. Briars have left their mark on some, and only time will tell how we fared against the chiggers. But for now, as we enjoy the fruit of our labors — cobbler a la mode — life is sweet. Berry sweet indeed.

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at kimhenderson319@gmail.com.