Every summer when we went to Seattle, the first thing we always did upon arriving at our grandparents’ house was to run to the backyard and eat the raspberries off the bushes growing in the backyard. To this day the smell of fresh raspberries brings back that memory, and I don’t know if I love raspberries so much simply for what they are or because of the connection in my mind.
I’m happy to see my sons building the same associations, both picking berries at their own grandparents’ house, and at their great-grandmother’s.
My parents planted these raspberries just last year. Last year they were tiny clumps of leaves, this year they are dripping with berries.
Like mother like son, I suppose. They don’t even make it in the house.
My grandmother is still growing raspberries. But this year the star crop was the marionberries, similar to a blackberry. My grandmother always reminds me she planted them at my request. I’ve nearly only ever had them from her backyard.
