It's likely that she did, because I'm pretty sure this predisposition goes back much further than a few generations. When I pick berries, I feel like I'm doing honor to the women gatherers who came before me. Granted, they didn't have to use a weapon to slay their berries, but danger was and is present. You've got your water moccasins, your poison ivy, your berry brambles, and your barbed-wire fences to keep you on your toes. The fear of danger, however, is quelled by the thrill of the hunt.
Dewberries love rain.
It makes them fatten up big and juicy. Some of the best picking I ever did was on the Dingle Peninsula in southwestern Ireland where it rains more often than not. Footpaths leading down to the ocean were lined with six foot high berry bushes teeming with the most enormous, toothsome berries I've ever seen or tasted. I picked and ate, and picked and ate, and ate some more until I nearly exploded. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.