Picking Blackberries

Hey Grammie.

It’s me. I know I don’t write enough, or call at all. I’m still trying to figure out the strange displacement that is adulthood. You would think at 33 years old now I wouldn’t be so awkward anymore.

But here I am. Hey Grammie, do you remember that time you took me to Portland and we got to ride a tram together? That was one of the coolest things ever for my small wide eyed self.

Do you also remember when it was night time we were walking and that homeless man scared me, and I almost brandished at him with my umbrella like it was a baseball bat? Of course, 7 year old me probably wouldn’t have hurt him much. I still laugh every time I remember that.

What about that walk we took and we found like 3 dollars in pennies, lined up like a mystery trail. We followed it forever and came home with a heavy bag of coins. To me, that was the coolest adventure.

But, what about in the humid Oregon summers, we’d take our evening walks and go to the wild blackberry patches. We’d pick so many blackberries. Our fingers and mouths would be purple when we got home because we’d eat so many. I don’t remember if we ever got to make a pie… but I remember the long walks, and pricking my arms and fingers getting the berries you couldn’t reach. The spiders making me squeal in fright but the loot was worth it. Any brave adventurer would agree.

Here, where I live it’s lush like Oregon. It’s a long country road, littered with wild black berry bushes. And it’s just that time of year, isn’t it?

I took my kids black berry picking. My city boy stepson learned that unripe blackberries are not raspberries, and it’s harder to climb up a hill in tall grass is harder and itchier than it looks. And he was so excited when he plucked them from the vine, that same sparkle in his eyes that I remember feeling. That look of: “I DID IT!” He’s 9 in a couple of weeks, and he’s just the sweetest and cutest little smart ass you’ve ever met. Just like his dad.

Sky, whose turning 5 soon, was more distracted by the random cat that decided to follow us up and down the road and all the way home. She named her Sweet Berry Pie. Remind you of anyone you used to know?

Marlee, my two year old was determined. She wanted to prove she could get berries too. She would pick some, then excitedly show me every one. I think I did that to you too. Little thing almost fell down a hole trying to do a good job.

The baby just dangled off his harness, and I had to keep from reaching in too far- but he’s going to love berry picking if I keep bringing him along.

I made a cobbler with our berries tonight. The kids only liked the topping and ice cream part, and at first that made me a little sad. But then I realized, I can’t remember a single pie out of our black berries. I only remember the walks to the black berry bush being full of adventure with you, and I remember picking the berries with you. And I can’t remember specific conversations, I remember picking black berries with my Grammie. I’m going to keep that going. One day maybe far, far in the future, I’ll have grandkids to take berry picking. And I’m so excited for that.

Thank you Grammie, for putting magic and adventure in my life. I remember you’d play pretend with me. You’d skip with me. You were a super hero and a magic sorcerer. The finder of pennies, and the keeper of Avalon, guarded by a thicket of black berry bushes.

I remember. And black berry picking will always have you in it, even though we’re far apart.

Love you so much,

Itter Bitter