I grew up in suburban Pittsburgh. The area was newly developed and my backyard emptied into a wooded forest that for some reason was called the army camp. My friends and I would organize hikes and treks through what we thought was uncharted territory, following streams and pathways that we claimed were forged by the American Indians who once inhabited the area. In late summer, we would patrol these same woods in search of blackberry patches, fiercely guarding our finds and swearing one another to secrecy. Although we were not allowed to eat the berries until they were inspected and washed at home, somehow, that rule was always broken, but we seemed to manage to get enough so that my next door neighbor could bake them into pies.
August 6th, 2017
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