blackberries…

christmas-winter.tumblerAsk me about my childhood, and I will tell you to walk to the edge of the woods with a choir of crickets chirping from every direction, a hot, humid breeze brushing through your hair, your feet, bare and callused. Stand there, unmoving, and watch the dance of ten thousand fireflies blinking on and off in the darkness. Inhale the scent of cured tobacco, freshly plowed southern soil, burning leaves, and honeysuckle. Swallow the taste of blackberries, picked straight from the bushes, and lick your teeth, the after-taste still sweet in your mouth. Now, stretch out on the ground and relax all your muscles. Watch nature’s festival of flickering lights.

Memory: Brenda Sutton Rose
Image: Christmas – winter.tumber

Doing? That, <points up> was my childhood.  The blackberry bush was on a plot of land just on shore down a dirt road from my house.  We’d raid it often, and trudge home with stained fingers and lips, cut off shorts and tshirts covered in mud and wet from the salt water. Those days my muse was a tan and black shepard name Bo Bo, and when he heard my Mom or Dad call my name he’d scamper to me and tug on the back of my shorts herding me home were supper lay on the table.

I was chestnut brown by summer’s end, face dotted with freckles, with a long sun bleached ponytail.  ‘Sunshine’ was my nickname.  Innocence was my companion, and you could have sold me all the seashore in Arizona I was so gullible.