I just got back from dropping my kids off for the weekend with my parents. They are going camping. I am going home to sleep. In a bed. That’s not on the ground. And not slightly damp from a leaking tent.
I am a little jealous of my kids though. The campsite they are staying at is surrounded by wild blackberries.
I have fond childhood memories of wild blackberries. They make me nostalgic as long as I see them anywhere than in my garden. In my garden, they are not nostalgic, they are a nuisance. But still I enjoy seeing them other places.
Picking wild blackberries is an odd thing. Somehow doing it conjures up absolutely uncalled for mystical feelings. They are inferior to the domesticated varieties. They tend to be sour and small. They spring up as weeds in places they have no business being. And yet, like with all things untamed, we feel we have been let into a different world when we can pluck a few berries from their canes and eat them.
The same phenomenon happens with white tailed deer too.
I am hoping that my children are happily making their own memories of wild blackberries. They certainly won’t be able to in my yard.