The Season

Growing up my grandparents would come visit us in the summer.

Usually when blackberries were in season.

Mom would head off to work and Grandma would wrangle us together we'd head off to pick blackberries.

I remember seeing her climb a slope and diving into a blackberry thicket giddy as a school girl.

We'd pick bucketfuls of fat ripe berries.
Suffer pricked fingers, torn clothes, and thorn gashes of which I still have a few scars to this day.

She'd freeze them.
Make freezer jam.
Best of all though...

She'd make blackberry pie.

As much as I hate picking blackberries to this day, something inside me said, 'get your ass out there and pick some berries for your grandma'

Not nearly enough for a pie.
Definitely enough for my breakfast bowl tomorrow and maybe a couple sneaky handfuls for me and the dogs.

The heat, the smell of fresh berries, the bleeding fingertip, are totally worth it.

It reminds me of my grandma.
And I loved her so very much.

Happy Sunday


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