We hike we laugh and we talk. We reach the top of the hill where the berries grow as far as the eye can see. We pick for hours and compare the pounds and pounds of juicy ripe berries. We climb down the bank and back to the vehicle. Pile in to the old beat up truck that only gets used when we come up this awfully maintained road. The truck squeals to a start and we begin to roll down the road back to the house. Each bump we hit the truck rears and groans as if it is in pain.
We pull in the drive to the dog barking and chasing chickens through the gardens. We all pile out and go into the house rinse the berries and begin to make my mom's famous wild berry jam. We wash our hands and get the pots out.
“Put the berries in the pot and then run downstairs and grab the jars and the big bag of sugar” says mom.