| Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.  Summer is waning. I see it in the maple leaves in our front yard, gold and rusty red. A first this fall, ALL my kids are in school; the twins in kindergarten and their brother in first grade. While life is still plenty hectic, I now have large chunks of time to myself. Having the time to take a shower AND do my hair is fabulous.Exercise that was put on hold has resumed, which found me walking the Napa River Trail recently. A little over two miles round trip, the trail is mostly shaded and winds along the river giving you full glimpses of the murky green water when the trees don’t interrupt the view.Walking along I noticed that many of the blackberry bushes were full of fruit and much of it was ripe. After picking one off the bush I blew on it to get the dust off and popped it into my mouth. Instantly I was transported back to childhood summers spent in California and Oregon where we would go blackberry picking or just enjoy the bushes that grew in the neighborhood.The best berry is just a bit overripe, its plump kernels squishing in between your fingers letting out a drop or two of deep purple juice that stains your fingers until you can lick it off. The flavor is delicious.
As I walk, licking my fingers, eyes peeled for the next perfect berry to savor, the taste in my mouth reminds me of summers flying down Blackberry Hill. I was probably about nine. The neighborhood kids would save large pieces of cardboard from appliance purchases their parents made or oversized boxes from the local market. The boxes would be flattened and dragged up Blackberry Hill, which was grassy and steep enough to send you flying down it when you ran and jumped onto the cardboard, riding it down on your belly or your butt, depending on your style. I remember hanging out at Blackberry Hill for hours, sliding down the grassy carpet until the cardboard would break or get too worn to use. Blackberry bushes thrived around the periphery, so when you took a break, you could eat to your hearts content. I don’t remember there ever being parents there, just kids, cardboard and blackberries. Back to reality, the trail behind me, fingers licked clean, thoughts turning to the grocery shopping that is next on my list. But not before I think about my own children and wonder what their “Blackberry Hill memory” will be? Will something, a food, place, song or smell bring back a wonderful mental snippet from their childhood, when life was simple and carefree and they could spend hours doing something that they remember they enjoyed when they are grown-ups going about their lives. |
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