It’s funny how little time meant to us as young kids- even into adulthood. And then suddenly you wake up one morning and decades of time has slipped away. The years rushed by in a myriad of events. Most of those events in our early years were happy times commemorating accomplishments and milestones. Then.. those decades go by and the notches on our time belt start to be whittled out for sad moments or melancholy reflections of longing.

I’m not suggesting this is a bad thing; it’s just like the old and antiquated pieces we love to surround ourselves with- it’s a marking of time. At the farmhouse, Dad and I were discussing this was “ berry picking time” ( blackberries). We have had an abundance of rain and we are hopeful for lots of berries.  He reminisced about picking berries as a kid and selling a gallon of blackberries for a quarter. I told him that during berry picking time was the only time I had ever seen his mom, my grandmother, in a a pair of pants. She was a small lady with a large pair of pants rolled up at the bottoms and a floral type sash tied around her waist with a gallon bucket tied to the sash!

I guess there is a berry picking time of some sort in all our lives. That is one of the whittled notes on my time belt!

As always,
K and J