When I was little, I remember our family driving down the road and my mom would say, “Albert, did you see all those blackberries? Go back…let’s get some.” And my dad would always turn around. We’d find a sack or something in the car to take the berries home in and then we’d be on our merry way, with our contraband blackberries, juice running down our necks and stained hands. Those days almost always ended with a blackberry cobbler and vanilla ice cream.
