Author Joyce Maynard's essay on picking berries with her daughter.
Then last summer I managed to be in the Granite State in mid-August. For my part, old wounds and battles from decades past seemed insignificant, measured against the backdrop of a whole life. Losses only clarified the preciousness of what endures: The cycle of the seasons. The glory of summer. A firstborn child, the berry-picking companion of my youth.
And so we planned to make a day of it on Pitcher Mountain together.
I was happy to see that for all the changes in our lives and the world around us there was still a hand-painted sign posted in the dirt parking lot, with a box for depositing 25 cents a pound for berries. The honor system.
Thirty years had passed since the first time I climbed that mountain with my little overall-wearing girl. She’s older now than I was the first time we ventured out to pick, though not too old to take my hand as we headed up the path together.Next: A Reunion on the Mountain »