Blackberry Picking
- dialogual
- Jan 15, 2015
- 2 min read
“Lord, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. What will I tell Miss Lurlene’s aunts when
they come up here from New Orleans?”
“You won’t have to say nothin’, Momma. They’ll see you messed up yo’ foot when you fell off the po’ch and understand. Maybe.”
“What you mean?”
“Those women are crazy. Like the time they were here and wanted me to go put ice
in their coffee.”
“Well, I guess it was crazy. They white city folk though. Still, those girls did grow up around here.”
“What you want for supper?”
“You’ll have to do it. You’ll have to pick those blackberries.”
“I don’t want to go. I’m scared to go.”
“Scared of what?”
“That old house.”
“Maudie, you 13 years old. There ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of. It’s just an old, falling-down house. Anyway, you know the best blackberries grow around it.”
“There might be snakes around there.”
“Lord, there ain’t no snakes in there. If you scared, stop and pick up li’l Taylor. He
should be home from school.”
“He don’t stop talkin’.”
“I know. That chile talk a mile a minute. That good ‘cause you don’t say two words.
Now go get my garden gloves to use.”
“I have my own.”
“Since when?”
“I’ll use the ones you use to clean the commode.”
“Oh sweet Jesus! Well, put on my garden hat.”
“I’ll wear my sombrero. The one Miss Lurlene’s aunts brought me from Mexico. They got it from that woman on the streets. She wanted 3 dollars but they gave her two. I need to pick some azaleas to put on it though, to look like those ladies on TV.”
“You’ll look like a crazy fool!”
“Not any more crazy than coming all the way up here to get somethin’ for free when you rich enough to get it in the sto’!”
Andre DeCuir grew up in rural Louisiana but now lives in the midwest. He considers himself a southern writer and tries to convey the character of the area in short fiction and poetry. His works have appeared in First Circle magazine and Rose and Thorn journal.
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