A wild weekend and a wilder week, leaves me breathless. The eldest has a friend in town, from Austin, the homeland, and he's curious about our little valley, which currently is swirling with wildfire smoke and tumultuous storm clouds.
The lightning strikes are dreaded here, much as I'd like there to be a thunderstorm. Thunder doesn't roll here the way it did in Texas. In those open spaces it had everywhere to go and time to move, a crack of thunder might last nearly 30 seconds. Here, you hear it and it's gone, hidden or vanquished by the steep hills full of dry tinder.
We walked a lot tonight, foraging around the neighborhood. We joked. We said we could steal apples here and plums there, perhaps a peach near one house, and grapes dangled temptingly over the gate of a bed and breakfast. But the blackberries, they are free They are the bane of most folks existence, creeping and croaching in covering land like kudzu does in the south.
The berries are delicious though, sweet and tart, their drupelets each a burst of flavor as you bite. You have to be wiling though, to reach and stretch and risk mild bloodletting to get that juice.
The thunder rattles briefly. The kids collect the berries and laugh at improvised band name, "Drupelet Patrol" for that's what we are, collecting berries as the rain draws near.
Breakfast tacos are being readied in the kitchen, and everything feels right.