On Sunday morning, I picked blackberries with Dad. DH fed the dink his apples and cereal while I hopped on the golf cart in my pajama pants and slippers carrying a mug of coffee and an empty Mardi Gras cup for the goodies. Dad had made several paths in the woods and cut back spidery branches before my arrival, so we'd have access to the pickins. After we'd filled two cups with mostly the juicy berries found in small slices of shade, Dad drove the cart fast over the edges of his bumpy land, so I had to cover the cups with my hands, to show the me blackberry vines that were almost ripe, not near ripe, and overripe. The early green berries he said are hard to spot in the backdrop.
When we got back, the blackberries nearly filled a quart-size ziploc, and he reminded me three or four times that day to take them home. He doesn't care for them. But he was already talking about which bushes would be ripe the next time I'd come.
DH is learning about his own blackberry picking with the dink. He called me from a break at a mediation today to tell me that every morning when he gets out of the shower, the dink gives him the biggest smile and kicks his legs from his bouncy seat. It's like dink is wondering what in the world happened to him for those five minutes and is joyous at his return. Every morning, a big smile and happy legs.