Mildred G
Language Arts period 1
July 17, 1995

Blackberry, blackberry, blackberry pie.....
Blackberry, blackberry, my oh my.

Even when I am a hundred and cannot remember where I am, I will still be able to remember picking blackberries in my backyard. I often find myself reminiscing about when I was young, getting up at the break of dawn on a sunny August morning, running downstairs to my kitchen window and staring at the sun rays kissing the blackberries with its early morning light. As the blackberries soaked up sun rays, it made my mouth water. I was (and still am) a believer that the early bird gets the biggest berries. I was the early bird!

I would get the biggest bowl my mother would let me put blackberries in. I darted out the backdoor to pick blackberries because I had been waiting all summer for them to ripen. I picked the one that earned their name, the real black ones. I stopped picking blackberries when the bowl was filled to the brim. Then I hustled to the kitchen, dropping blackberries on the way.

I loved it when the berries would drop onto the back porch creating a modern abstract. My dad thought it looked messy, so I had to hose down the porch, but I didn't mind because I knew the next morning I would see a new modern abstract splattered all over the porch.

I knew many different appetizing blackberry recipes. I made dumplings, cobblers, pies, fillings and lots of jam. One summer, I made jam, for every one I knew. Sometimes I would just enjoy eating blackberries with a little sugar sprinkled on top. I loved sitting under a tree on a hot summer day, eating blackberries and a glass of cold fresh spring water.

As I stop day dreaming I always know that when I die, assorted blackberry deserts will be served at my funeral reception. Why? Because I requested it in my will. Everyone will remember me doing something that I love.