Three men parked down on the road in front of our property a couple nights ago. They had bolt cutters and a plan to break into our shop. What they didn’t have was respect for brambles.
The first man hit the property line at a jog. He made it four steps. The canes took him like a cat takes a mouse — not quick, but certain. One barb in the jeans, then another in the jacket, then three in the scalp. He yelled. That was mistake one. Sound carries in a holler.
The second man tried to go around. Blackberries don’t “around.” They’d swallowed the old deer path in ’09. He pushed in with his forearm and came back with his sleeve in ribbons and blood running down to his elbow. The thorns are recurved, built to keep prey from backing out. Every time he pulled, they bit deeper.
The third was smarter. He had a machete. He swung once, twice. The canes sprang back. Blackberry is whippy, green wood. Cut one, three more slap you in the face. He got ten feet in and realized he couldn’t see the road anymore. Couldn’t see his feet. Couldn’t see anything but thorns and the dark. That’s when the yellowjackets came up from a nest he’d stepped on. They didn’t care who was trespassing.
Now, I didn’t call the sheriff until sunrise mind you and we all slept just fine. The dogs didn’t even bark — they knew the briars were working.
The Sheriff found them at 6:40 AM, picking their way out to the road looking like they’d lost a fight with fifty cats. One had to cut his own boot off to get his ankle free. The bolt cutters were still in the thicket somewhere. Nobody was going back for them.
The Sheriff walked the edge with me, looked at the scratches on those men, looked at the wall of green and purple.
“You do this on purpose?” the Sheriff asked as
he popped a berry in his mouth. July-sweet, still warm from the night.
“No sir,” I said. “I just quit mowing. The mountain did the rest.”
I offered the Sheriff a hatful to take to the station. He took it. Evidence, he said.
Folks in town started saying those folks up on Big Dog Reserve had the best security system in Smyth County. No wires, no batteries, no subscription. Just pays you back in cobbler.
And if you ask me about it, I’ll tell you the same thing my Dad said: “A fence tells a man he’s not wanted. A blackberry patch convinces him.”
That’s security.