Cottonwoods & Raspberries

When I close my eyes on a summer afternoon I can clearly flip back through the years in memory of childhood days in the high desert.

My Grandparents were far from wealthy, but they truly understood what made the good things in life, and the richness that came from that was more valuable than diamonds.

On hot summer afternoons, they would tumble the three of us grandkids into the venerable sedan and drive us down a winding canyon road lined with cottonwood trees. The floor of that shallow canyon held an ice cold creek which came from the dark, lower reaches of a large reservoir somewhere up canyon.

That meant that the water was sparkling clear and cold even on the hottest desert day. The cottonwood trees would be dropping their soft white whisps of cotton down upon us as if the angels themselves were dropping tiny wings swirling down through the air.

And my Grandfather would bestow an empty coffee can to each of us and allow us to hunt the ripe raspberries which grew in thick brambles along the farther shore of the creek. At first of course most that we picked went straight into our mouths, but as that slowed down and the coffee cans were filled we focused more on the pies to come.

When the cans were full, and we had washed and splashed about in the icy creek water in an effort to get clean. Grandma would fuss for awhile over any scratches on our arms, and praise our full berry cans. They would load us up and start the return drive up the dusty canyon back home. By the time we were back the entire warm car smelled of ripe berries.

We were usually asleep in the back seat before arriving, and we were often too full to bother with dinner that night. But the next day, Grandma would bake all that ripe fruit into the most beautiful golden brown pies you could ever dream of.

Fortunately, by then, our appetites had returned.