those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
I wiggled out of bed Saturday morning just after the sun rose. After pulling on clothes, pulling back my hair, and pulling a $20 bill from my purse, I jumped in the Jeep and rumbled and bounced my way down to the local berry farm.
I lost myself in those leafy, bejeweled vines. My pail and I wandered forever, snatching glossy berries the size of a thimble... no, bigger... and dropping them one by one in the bucket.
You should have held one too. I'd never seen blackberries so juicy. Or so enormous. I could only cradle three at a time without losing one to the soggy ground.
I know I speak often of magical days, but truly, it was. Dew glistened and dripped. Soft grass mushed underfoot. Plump berries tumbled into pails. The sun shone. And butterflies fluttered about me and landed everywhere - on my shoe, in the wagon, atop my buckets.
Next time you'll have to come with me. We'll make a day of it, you see, and eat a picnic lunch under the blue, blue sky and count the butterflies winging by....
... And of course, have a picking contest. Although really, on a day like this, the destination is secondary to the journey.
Blackberry, blackberry, blackberry. Now you close your eyes and say it. No... you have to say it like you're there with me... among the berries and breeze and butterflies. Yep... see? Ordinary magic, isn't it?
(My Blackberry Crumble recipe coming soon!)