It’s the perfect childhood memory I didn’t have. Now living out in the country it’s raspberry picking season and the bramble scratches my skin as I work my way through raspberry canes that tangle as they always seem to do. No matter. The lure of ripe juicy raspberries just out of reach beckons and I push further getting ever more mired in the bramble
Despite the sharp tearing at my clothes and skin, here stand I in the midst of it all, selecting the ripe raspberries discarding the shriveled ones. Mother nature is amazing in providing raspberry look alike bugs and I’m occasionally startled when the raspberry I go to pick suddenly has moving parts. Yuck, I think as I make these now adult memories with the child within me still.
I give today a three raspberry rating – about all that might make it in the house if I don’t turn over the quart box soon enough. Here we go with raspberry mush all over my fingers and all over my face and only the sweetness of a second childhood’s shadow in the distance.