Thorns and Berries.
College Essay
Mr. Bui 3rd Block Honour’s English
Mary McCauley

Working is something of an obligation that’s been bestowed upon nearly every human being.  With any obligation, we aren’t eternally enthusiastic about it.  Especially when the impulses of childish whims grab you by the wrist and run through the thorny blackberry bushes with the feeling of shame pricking your skin as you descend from such a power trip.  Such was the case for me. I would constantly dart through the woods in my gym shorts and the directionless brambles would entangle me, and I’d always come home with my legs all bloodied and stinging with the brief remorse of yet another day of running amok.  In spite of the pain from the blackberry bushes, their directionless clinging and invasiveness eventually transforming into something of a fatal vice; The fruits that they would germinate were such an earthly comfort and staple of my childhood.  Their exponentially finite lifespan is surprisingly akin to our own development. I was a tender sprout that was just beginning to break the surface of the rigid Earth that enveloped me and provided structure.
  Growing up in rural Mississippi, the blackberry bushes were abundant and ensnared me. My job was to cut them down and to burn them every weekend from noon to when the sun set. Overall, this task that encumbered me was boring and monotonous. Whenever I neglected to exercise caution, either the thorns would pierce my body or the flames would lick my thumb as a cruel reminder that I’m not fulfilling my task in the proper and acceptable fashion. The seemingly vast ocean of forests and thorns would always make my soul feel so isolated and so overwhelmed. The rusty loppers were becoming of the age of retirement (and disposal), so I had an affair with my father’s miniature collection of machetes. Filled with this newfangled determination, I would run up and down the forest hacking things down and brimmed with immense satisfaction that I was doing something that my father told me to do.  Eventually that sea of invasive shrubbery would shrink more and more towards its conclusion.

After every afternoon filled with making sure that I obeyed my parent’s commands to the best of my abilities, we would all gather on the porch and relax.  My father would be drinking his whiskey, while my brother and I sat close to my Mama’s lap and nibbled on the rewards of our day’s labor: fried okra and a brisket sandwich. Sometimes   The orchestra of the bullfrogs and other particularly vocal creatures would bid farewell to the sun and gladly lure in the placid evening.  I wouldn’t sacrifice those nights for anything. Reaping the results of such work made it all the more of a blessing.
Looking back upon those memories makes me miss those days of growth. While I’m still growing, I’ve come a very long way. I’m no longer that delicate, fragile sapling. I’m a strong oak. Even the sky seems close enough where I can reach it. Those long days have toughened my skin, and opened my mind. Work is no longer this foreign concept to me, as it is now a part of me. For this, I am eternally grateful that I got to grow in an environment that challenged me to adapt and to want to do well. Nothing can uproot this tree.