The winter before last, I cut all the blackberry canes nearly to the ground in the misguided understanding that they would recover in time to produce the following summer.  They didn’t.  In retrospect, I should only have cut the canes which had borne fruit that year and left the prima canes, the ones which sprang up for the first time that year, but did not bear.  Blackberries have fruit on second-year canes.

Cut to this year.  Since I cut everything down, everything that grew up this year is a lovely, fruit-bearing, second-year stunner, and they are thickly covered in berries, just now beginning to ripen.

Following the Pessimist’s Rule of Gardening, that can only mean that one or more of the following is about to happen:

1.  Another 100-mph derecho will tear through our town, wisking away the entire bramble patch.

2.  A tornado will uproot the whole thing, relocating it to the home of someone who doesn’t like fruit with tiny seeds.

3.  Some heretofore unknown fungal disease will attack and cause all the fruit to rot just before it ripens.

4.  A flock of birds or a swarm of insects will descend, roaring away with all my hopeful cobbler-filled dreams.

5.  Thanks to global warming, some new species will have migrated from the south, irritable and hungry for berries.   (Which reminds me, Arkansas, do you want your armadillos back?  Because they’re just creepy).

6.  While I’m not looking, my tinies will put on the thorn-proof suits they have secretly made just for this purpose, pluck all the berries, and feed them to the fattest, most spoilt chickens in the western hemisphere.

Just so I’m prepared.

I’m not even going to get started on the blueberries we’re not going to get to eat.