There’s a memory that sticks with me from my days on my grandmother’s farm: the time I ate too many green apples from her yard. I was maybe eight, sprawled out on the porch, clutching my stomach and groaning like the world was ending. She didn’t miss a beat—just grabbed her spade, headed to the blackberry patch, and dug up a tangle of roots. “This’ll fix you,” she said, boiling them into a tea that tasted like dirt and salvation. Sure enough, my belly settled, and I was back to mischief by sundown. That was my introduction to blackberry root, a Cherokee standby—and a remedy I’m excited to dig into for naturalhealth.website.
My grandmother was part Cherokee, and she wore that heritage in her quiet confidence with the land. She’d take me out to the fields and woods around her farm, pointing out plants like they were old friends. Blackberries weren’t just for pies or snacking—though I loved those too. To her, the roots were medicine, a cure she’d learned from her own mother for upset stomachs and diarrhea. She’d tell me how the Cherokee used it when the seasons turned or when someone ate something they shouldn’t—like a greedy kid with unripe apples. It was simple, strong, and straight from the earth.
What’s the secret in those gnarled roots? It’s all about tannins—astringent compounds that tighten up tissues and slow things down in your gut. When you’re running to the outhouse too often or feeling queasy, those tannins step in like a natural brake. The Cherokee knew this, harvesting the roots in late summer or fall when they were potent, then drying them or boiling them fresh. My grandmother swore by it, and I can still see her scraping the dirt off with her knife, calm as ever, knowing it’d work.
If you want to try it her way, it’s not hard. Find a blackberry bush—Rubus fruticosus or a wild cousin—and dig up some roots (just be sure it’s yours to harvest or you’ve got permission). Wash them well, chop them into small pieces, and boil a tablespoon or so in a cup of water for about 15 minutes. Strain it, sip it slow, and don’t expect a treat—it’s bitter, but it does the job. She’d add a touch of honey if I whined, though she’d tease me for being soft. (Heads up: if you’ve got a sensitive stomach or are on meds, talk to a doc first.)
That afternoon, as I sipped her tea and the cramps faded, she sat with me on the porch, watching the sun dip behind the trees. She didn’t fuss—just let the blackberry root and the quiet do their work. It’s that kind of healing I’m after with naturalhealth.website, a way to carry her Cherokee knowledge forward. Blackberry bushes are still out there, their roots waiting to help, just like they did for me. Next time your gut’s in a twist, maybe give them a nod—and think of her.
Jeff Gilder
