I was craving wild black raspberries.  Not to be confused with red raspberries, black raspberries are more mild, more staining, and more difficult to find because they only grow wild.  They’re almost growing-up-in-Iowa rite of passage.

Two weeks ago, I called The Kid and made him go out to the wild black raspberry bushes near my parents’ house to ascertain if the berries were ripe yet.  He said they were.

I had visions of thick, juicy clusters of black raspberries dancing in my head.

The red berries are not yet ripe and taste dreadfully sour. It's the black ones that are the jewels.

I picked a whole bunch of black raspberries at the bottom of the hill at Joey’s parents’ house, and I only shared less than half of what I picked.  (I was super greedy.)

I felt about 50% sated of my black raspberry craving, and Sister and I had plans to go forage in the woods across the street from the speed limit sign in Yonder (that’s the part of my parents’ yard that’s way, way, way over yonder; hence the name).  The Fourth of July dawned wet, rainy, and altogether gloomy outside.  We were unsure if we would get to go into the woods after all since everything was so slippery.

The rain finally stopped about 1:30 and, in between near-fatal experimental rocket launches, we three sisters suited up in the ugliest, warmest clothes we could find, linked arms, and walked down the seal coated road.  You can walk arm in arm on my parents street without getting hit by a car, even though it’s technically Main Street.  It’s awesome.

(We used to have “how long can we lay in the middle of the road” contests as children.)

We discovered the raspberries by mom and dad’s house weren’t as ripe yet as The Kid had led us to believe.  But, consistent with our lemons to lemonade outlook, we decided we’d pick as many of them as possible.  Down the soggy ditch we slid, and it was right about then that Sister started whining rather uncharacteristically.

“I’m going to get wet,” and “These pants are uncomfortable,” and “It’s cold,” and “I don’t want to get scratched.”

Poor Sister.

“Fine fine, I’ll go in the thicket,” I said. “There’s barely any good ones in there anyway, you stay along the edge.”

Laura went back to the house for her boots and camera, and said she’d get me some boots too.  It’s not easy to climb over wet logs and down hills in soggy flip-flops when you’re trying to contend with raspberry briars.

We picked one large, red plastic cup full of berries.  By the end of it, Sister was mainly just standing there holding the cup and we were dumping our berries into her cup so that it looked like she did all the work.

As I said, POOR SISTER.  She was not a fan of the rainy weather.

We all went back inside, displayed our berries to the moms, who were sitting in the family room talking, and then promptly went for towels and dry clothes.

I discovered many, many long scratches on my legs and arms from the berry picking.  It pleased me.  Until we moved to Texas I was always thoroughly scratched up all summer, due to black raspberry picking and suchlike.

Unfortunately all the black raspberries will be ready in about two weeks, and they will be PLENTIFUL.  I told Laura if she doesn’t go back and pick them all, it will be a sorry day indeed.  Perhaps The Brother and The Kid will help her.

(Although I rather doubt it.)