A bowl of blackberries

A late February Saturday. (equivalent of a late August in the northern hemisphere)

Pleasantly warm afternoon. Friends visit and join us with a step-daughter already visiting. She is the youngest of Steve's brood, 15-year-old Stephanie...not easy to get past her barriers. Sometimes sulky, defiant, rude. Othertimes giggly, wanting to be accepted, trying hard to fit in. Normal with a bit of angst thrown in.

Con and Denise arrive with wine, a salad, and laughter. Con and Steve head to the "shed" where men hang out. Welding, sawing, downing a stubby bottle of beer each. Too early for dinner. I set out marinated lamb roast, get veggies, mushrooms and potatoes ready for later.

"Let's pick blackberries," this from pint-sized Denise who knows the mixed emotions Stephanie sometimes has toward me, the step-mom.

I hesitate. I don't like uncomfortable situations. Stephanie has been very difficult to be around lately. Sullen, ignoring me, won't eat what I make and complaining. My mind races for a way out. I can just stay at home to prepare the evening meal and let them wander. Steph likes Denise. She's not a threat and Denise has a way of coaxing her out. But a still, small voice inside me says, "go."

So I do. I distribute three plastic tubs to collect fresh blackberries. We wander down the road, empty tubs swinging from our lazy hands. Denise telling stories, Stephanie laughing, me chiming in now and then. We find a wild, tangled bush of the fruit we are after and dig in. My step-daughter and friend tackle the task with energy. I am a bit slower, looking for the ripest fruit as well as watching the ground for snakes and spiders. But I also look back.

I remember picking thumb-sized, plump-ripe blackberries off the side of a dusty road near the house where my children and I lived in Battle Ground, Washington. We ventured out, bowls in hand, chatting all the way about lots of things. Every now and then there would be a squeal at the abrupt presence of a large orb spider...mostly from me. Late August, late summer, warm days. The fruit of our labor were blackberry pies or tarts or just plain blackberries in bowls of milk and sugar.



I couldn't help but compare the tiny, drought starved blackberries to those at home. But I didn't say anything. They still tasted good. We were having a good time, and I didn't want to ruin it with comparisons. Steph warmed to me as the sun warms the cooling autumn earth. I responded. We had a good day.

Back at home, she taught me how to prepare her favorite zucchini snack with sour cream, tasty cheese, and paprika, and she was so proud that she told everyone within earshot. Denise, who knows the situation between Steve's youngest child and me, kept her distance when needed and chimed in with support and a diversion when I stumbled.

Dinner was a perfect roast, potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, green beans and salad. Dessert was blackberries over vanilla ice cream with coffee on the side.

After watching a movie, it was time for our guests to go home. I got a hug from Stephanie, and a "thank you."

I haven't seen her since then, her schedule is busy, and she lives with her mum about 20 minutes away.

But I think that blackberries are good memory posts to build on.