After dog walking the morning of Day 3, I picked huckleberries and blueberries near the Cannery. Wild berries grew on tall bushes near the perimeter. Popped into my mouth, they were tangy-delicious, more flavorful than domestic.
I eventually collected about two quarts of mixed berries.
Finally done with my delightful chore, I filled a big bowl with water and fruit and sat in the evening on the deck, watching the river and removing leaves and tiny stems, enjoying the way the gemlike, translucent red of the huckleberries contrasted with the dense velvety purple-blue of the blueberries.
For me, these simple, unpressured activities are a rest for the soul. Something about them creates a resonance inside me, echoes of generational memory. I sense the women of my history near and present in my nimble fingers and discerning eyes, alive and enjoying collecting natural food that grows wild as they did in their l…
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