It’s Etched in Stone: Sweet summer memories of blackberry picking
By Ralph Stone
MVI Columnist
Today’s story about a fruit that grows wild in our wooded areas has been a significant part of my life for more than 75 years.
My first encounter with blackberries, other than eating them, came when my eager 10-year-old eyes feasted on the juicy fruit patches at a place we referred to as Iron City Hill. Iron City Hill ran perpendicular to Brewery Hill, or Tyrol pass, and parallel to Shepler Hill.
My journey there began at about 5:30 a.m. on a July morning in 1944 when the Hayes brothers shouted out my name from Schoonmaker Avenue while I was downing a bowl of shredded wheat, anxiously awaiting their arrival.
Since the sun had not yet risen, it appeared to me that we would be picking berries in the middle of the night, but by the time we reached our destination, the sun had crept onto the horizon, and we were able to begin filling our 10-quart buckets.
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