The mulberries are starting set on the trees. It’s a little thing of little importance but means a little something to me. Last year, my youngest son spoke to me of his adventure with a friend who lives in the country and how they picked and ate them the branches. It was his favorite part to that time with his friend.
For that, I pay attention to the fence rows, where it is they’re thick in stand and where, in a few weeks time, they’ll be ripe for harvest and growing boy adventures. We only get so many summers, little moments to make such memories.
I want him to feel that excitement of adventure and discovery of feast again. I’d like to share it with him (whether in foreground or in shadow)—to see it live in face and expressions with friend as they maraud the countryside like little Tom Sawyers and Huckleberry Finns.
I want him to have that memory and adventure in his childhood. For this, I pay attention—making note—for approaching day, fresh after rain, when the fields won’t run and mulberries await.
