Blackberries

A sweet bite of the season’s first blackberries caused a rush of childhood summertime memories.

I recall a tree in the backyard of my grandparents’ little cottage near the beach. The branches and leaves were wild and messy like my gnarled curly hair in the salty sea air. I wasn’t yet ten.

The tree leaned lazily over the top of a modest shed. To me, it looked tired, but its branches held secret gems – a flurry of dark blue and purple, juicy berries. The way I saw my brothers and cousins scramble atop the shed to eat them straight off the branches, I knew there had to be something special about them.

Those summers were full of “special.”  Sandy streets. Bare feet. Sunburned shoulders. Scuffed shins. Cranky bike chains. Dark blue ocean waves as far as I could see. Sun-bleached towels and soggy bathing suits flung over the railing of the deck. Thick, slanting, late afternoon sun falling across the yellow linoleum floor.

In true Italian fashion, the largest and main room of the house was a spacious kitchen with cluttered counters, a long table to fit all the family, and plenty of chairs for any and all guests (family, friends, neighbors, and more) who happened to stop in. And they did stop in – all the time. The door was always open wide; there were often groups of chatty cousins – who lived around the corner -- strolling up the short concrete walkway. Regardless of age or gender, this meant a neat post-beach outfit and tan legs. I remember looking down at my strappy white sandals that pinched my feet. (It was a time when dressing well was expected, a remnant of our Italian family traditions.)  

I remember steam rising from a big pot on the stove, and the thick, heady aroma of hot pasta as it cooked. My grandmother stood, chatting and laughing in front of the stove, a white apron wrapped around her petite body. Her eyes had a mischievous twinkle behind her glasses which glinted in the sunlight. Ample sunshine flooded the room from the open front door and windows were open to the seasonally warm air. My grandmother didn’t love cooking (a trait passed down through my mom and me!), but I remember her always laughing, talking, a flutter of energy, no matter the time of day or occasion. To my young eyes, it seemed like she was always having the time of her life – surrounded by family, friends, banter and laughter.

In front of the windows stood a round, wooden table where she and a flock of female cousins would gather to play canasta, a card game beyond my youthful understanding. Meanwhile, my grandfather sat quietly and contentedly watching the Red Sox game or humming a jaunty tune in the background. It wasn’t beyond him to sing and dance his way across the kitchen floor, much to everyone’s delight, on his way to steal an olive from an antipasto dish or to fish out a hidden Fig Newton from the corner cabinet.

Sleeping over some nights, my legs sticking to the ‘plasticy’ couch cushions. Fresh Atlantic breezes fluttering the curtains. Soft shag carpet under my bare feet. I loved not wearing socks the whole summer. I’d wake up clammy in the humid morning air but excited for another glorious summer day.

A plump pine tree anchored the corner of the tiny, trim yard and grew exponentially each year along with me and my brothers and cousins.

It was always a happy place to be, full of comfort, fun and family. Summers tinged with sun and secret blackberries.