Popping one in my mouth I am suddenly 7 or 8 years old again, sitting on the backyard swing with my Grandpa. He grew them behind the garage – or rather on the side of the garage not facing the backyard. I would carefully make my way through the narrow patch, picking the brightest ones on the bushes, gathering them in my plastic Cool Whip bowl taken from my Grandma’s kitchen. Then we would rinse them with the garden hose and I would also steal a cool drink as it dribbled down my chin, tasting of metal and summer. We’d take our “treasures” to the big swing, looking out over the white picket fence, as we ate each and every one. My Grandpa would smoke a Marlboro and sing a song, or tell me a story, while we swung slowly in the sunlight, under the swaying poplar trees.

Raspberries…always a taste of sunshine and love and the some of the happiest childhood memories I have.

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