Sept 18, 1852
3.30 p.m. – A-barberrying to Flint
I grew up in a small New England town, in the 1960's. In many ways I enjoyed a Rockwellian childhood. (Not to be confused with an Orwellian childhood. Which is what a lot of children are getting today.)
Early in the summer, I would walk out to a raspberry patch on our acre and pick fresh berries for my cereal. In August, my sisters and I would pick blackberries and my mom would bake up some pies. It was hot work. You got bitten my mosquitoes and scratched by thorns, but the berries were plump, sweet, and juicy. And the pies. . . well, blackberry pie, still warm from the oven, or cold for breakfast? What more need I say?
Early in the summer, I would walk out to a raspberry patch on our acre and pick fresh berries for my cereal. In August, my sisters and I would pick blackberries and my mom would bake up some pies. It was hot work. You got bitten my mosquitoes and scratched by thorns, but the berries were plump, sweet, and juicy. And the pies. . . well, blackberry pie, still warm from the oven, or cold for breakfast? What more need I say?
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