No one knew that we had left the cottage. No one was really concerned that our beds were empty when they woke up. Those were raspberry mornings.
Early some summer mornings, my sister Andrea and I would sneak out of bed, fetch our metal pots and head down the road toward the raspberry patch. The gravel road ached the soles of our feet, but as summer wore on, our soles became like leather. We passed the sandy beach where we spent most of our time on hot summer days. We passed the gravesite of Sandy, our daschund who had died too early in life and whom we buried on this sacred spot. We strolled past Bologne Island, a magical land where our imaginations took us to a different world. Sometimes we passed Daisy the cow, grazing in the pasture. We would pick a daisy from the field and place it into Daisy’s poo. Sometimes they were sploshy plops and other times hard, pancake like plops. We carefully tread over the cow -catcher.
“Sorry Daisy”, I would call. “You can’t come with us.’
Just over the dusty hill, on the right hand side of the gravel road, was a thick patch of prickly raspberry canes.
We waded through the thorny bushes, filling our pots with sweet, red raspberries.
We didn’t talk much. It was a perfect time to think.
Andrea ate as she picked.
“Look out for the bugs,” I would warn.”
But I relished every berry, anxious to be the first one to fill my pot. Mom always said that I was the best berry picker.
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