Beyond the flavor of fresh picked berries, beyond the pure joy of being outside on a fine summers day, beyond the satisfaction of storing up some of the summer sun for those days when there is 2 feet of snow on the ground, there is the badge of scratches that make one look like they were waltzing with barbed wire. Yes, the badge of honor, even though one wore a long sleeved shirt and jeans, the the briers still snagged and scratched ones skin, The sweat, partially from the extra clothing and partially from the sunshine and humidity, made those scratches sting.
Raspberry picking was almost always a solitary event, no one could see that I ate nearly as many berries as I picked, wild raspberries and their kin the wine berry don't produce that many berries per cane, and the site of a good patch, especially a good patch of black raspberries is a closely guarded secret. Walking down some dusty road after supper with my plastic bucket, there never were very many berries to pick, but it was quiet, just me, my thoughts, the wind and a few birds.
Picking blackberries on the other hand was often social event, I would get a call from someone who's brother's friend's mechanic's next door neighbor told them about a great place to pick and we would be off. Well at least they used to be, there just don't seem to be as many berry pickers around as there used to be. There are usually ample berries clinging to the living barbed wire, canes that can easily grow to more than six feet tall, and it is a nice, secure feeling when one is lost in this thorny jungle with a mouthful of berries to hear "How's the picking over there?"
There are curtain shrouded bushes in my yard and those pampered little ghosties are my blueberry bushes, who have been relocated 3 times and have been tended after contracting Lawn mover Disease several times, and endured being dressed up in old curtains, fastened with clothes pins, to hide the rich blue orbs of fruit from the birds. Birds do deserve a treat, they do get a few of my berries.