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Lincoln Land Review
bombers looking for a way in, past the bug spray defense that we had laid out before leaving the house. My fingers would be stained purple and just a little sore from the thorns. My skin always had a few telltale scratches to show for it. Dad never complained though. Maybe he was immune. As we picked, I guess it didn’t hurt to keep in mind that delicious fresh baked pie with the scoop of ice cream on top. My dad passed away twelve years ago. During his lengthy illness from cancer, I would hold his hands, his skin rough and his fingers thick from a lifetime of hard labor. As we sat in silence, just enjoying our time together, I can remember asking myself, “What can I do to hold on to this feeling? How can I bring myself back to this time, to this connection that I have with my father? How can I remember his hands and what it feels like to hold them and what it feels like to spend time with him?” I didn’t know it at the time, but my answers were in the blackberry patch. I go there to this day; I always will. Sometimes my kids go with me. They usually only stay long enough to pick a few mouthfuls of berries with purple stained fingers and head back to grandma’s house. I stay on, picking the berries in the heat, sweating, swatting at the mosquitoes, armored in blue jeans and a John Deere hat. It just doesn’t seem as bad as it used to when I was a kid. To be honest, it feels like dad is just on the other side of the thicket, not saying much. And he doesn’t have to.