Blood for the Blackberries

I may have mentioned before that I am not a fan of using gloves when I'm working with my hands. I find them clumsy and irritating and I would rather just go without. Although even I am not fool enough to mess around with those vicious blackberries without protection. Except . . .

Yesterday when we were returning from checking the chicken's nest in the hay barn, Cubby asked for grapes. The grapes grow along the edge of the garden, so we went into the garden and I found him some grapes. Then, since he was happily engaged with his grapes for a few minutes, I thought I might as well do something useful in the garden. The blackberry patch was in a very sad state, mostly neglected and grown up to weeds four feet tall.

I thought I would just pull some of the ones around the edge of the patch. I thought I would stay away from the canes themselves and just work on it for a few minutes. I thought I would be smart and just come back to it when I had gloves.

Yeah. Ten minutes later when Cubby was ready to leave the garden and I went to pick him up, I saw the dried blood on my hand. I guess I had sliced myself with one of the weeds and didn't notice.

Such are the perils of unplanned gardening.