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.