The small white sign in the distance grew bigger and bigger as I walked. When I got closer I could make out the small black letters that I knew so well. It read “Blueberry Hill.” That’s one of the things I loved about living here - all the old houses had names, including Grandma’s. When Mom and I moved here I was sad because our house didn’t have a name. Most kids’ favorite day of the year is Christmas, but not me. Every August fifteenth I go to Grandma’s house and we pick blueberries together. It used to be her, me and Grandpa, but he passed away a few year ago. When I got to the door to her house I knocked loudly. After a few seconds she opened the door. Her pepper hair was frazzled and I could see clumps of flour in her bangs. She smiled up at me and said, “Are you ready?”
“Yes!” I said, eager to begin.