We do loves the raspberries

Every fall since my older son was old enough to walk we make one or more pilgrimages to the raspberry patch. Usually it yields enough for a year's worth of jam, plus surplus to throw in (or on) muffins, ice cream and cereal.

I love, love, love LOVE the raspberry patch. For one thing, it is on the most perfect piece of almost-neglected farmland. Old tracktors and trucks decay behind dilapidated barns. A rutted two-track carries you back to the rows of bushes. Aster and goldenrod and timothy invade any open space.

We almost always find surprises there. Once it was a walking stick (the insect, not wood), twice it was tree frogs, another time it was a praying mantis. ALWAYS there are -- oh! -- spiders.

This fall has been wet nearly every chance we've had to go...until last weekend. Oh was the weather gorgeous. Rich blue sky. Gold and red tree leaves. Seventy degrees and lots of raspberries.

While I picked, lifting each branch to see what berries were hiding underneath, my boys ran up and down the rows eating, laughing, utterly relaxed. I was able to lose myself in the simple act of gathering. I thought about wanting to thank someone or something for the day and for being where I was, with whom I was. Not being a deist, I issued a general thanks to the universe for days and experiences like the one I was having.

Then we went home. And sorted raspberries,



ate raspberries,



and wore raspberries.



Then, not satisfied with raspberries alone, we turned to cannibalism.