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This is blackberry-picking time — in my youth, the trip was always down to Sinking Creek, where wild blackberries grew in abundance in the river bottom. Then in later years, I have great memories of Rod Walton taking us to his secret blackberry-picking place, an old farm owned by a friend. The edges of all the fields were overgrown with blackberry vines about three feet tall, and we had to push through briars every step of the way — but the berries were great! After a while, it was hard to tell which smears on our hands were berry stains and which ones were bloodstains, but hey, it all washed off eventually.

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