When my parents called to say the wild blackberries were ripe and ready for picking, I immediately dropped what I was doing, loaded up the boys and headed north to my parent’s land. Few things in life make me this excited! Our childhood summers were spent building forts, carving roads in the sandbox and picking the endless wild blackberries that flourished in the woods behind our house. We would pick at least a dozen large cooking pots full and our mamma would wash and freeze them by the gallon. Every Sunday lunch throughout the year was finished off with a dripping sweet blackberry pie. I can still taste those memories and begin to crave a blackberry pie around my birthday in January. I remember one solemn Sunday mother drew out the last bag of blackberries and sadly broke the news to six blackberry addicted children that this was the last pie. We all mourned that Sunday for the last of the blackberries, for the patch had long since dried up. What was left were six little people who would grow in to six grown people who still fight for the last piece of blackberry pie at family gatherings and request it for birthdays instead of cake.
As I began to fill up my basket with nostalgia and blackberries, my own little one plucked one, then another, then handfuls of the sweet little berries. He just couldn’t get enough, and that is when I knew…this child is mine.