When I was a child, I remember picking wild blackberries with my dad and sister. I fondly recall hiking down the railroad tracks behind our little house in Convoy with a large bucket that I believe we nearly halfway filled. I think that my mom would typically stay home but her efforts came shortly after we'd arrive with our treasure, when she would transform our bucket of fresh berries into an incredible cobbler. The house would begin to smell amazing and we would know that it was almost time to dig into the "fruits of our labor".
Many summers past once we moved from those tracks in Convoy with no berries. I don't think I missed it all that much until sometime after I got married. I love creating memories and I feel like the memories of traditions are ones that tend to stick for me. I remembered picking berries and I wanted to reinstate the tradition with my new family. A few years ago, David and I discovered that the biking trail near our home is lines with wild berries. Getting to them before the birds or other eager folks like me can be a challenge however. Last night, after a long two days at work, David and I were discussing what to do with the hour between eating supper and putting the boys to bed. It seemed like a perfect time to pick some berries. David had peeped the scene earlier in the day on a bike ride and had already determined the best location. Jonah was excited and so was I. So we headed out the door with the boys and located about 2 cups of wild blackberries. Jonah may have eaten close to a cup through the picking process. Though I just finished making my cobbler (which I am crossing my fingers is reminiscent of the ones mom used to make), I recognize that it is not about the berries, the amount gathered, or the baked cobbler. It is about the experience shared, the story I am creating with my family...
