Patio Pastimes

I just love raspberries, don't you? I've eaten them my whole life, yet, somehow, every time I pop open a new container of the red gems, I fall in love with the flavor all over again.

There's nothing like the sweet-tangy flavor of a ripe raspberry.

I think another reason I love them so is because of the flood of memories that wash over me with each berry.

The flavor and fragrance of raspberries always make me think of my Nanny and Bampa, my mother's mom and dad. Nanny and Bampa had raspberry bushes in their yard and, during their season, that's the first place I'd head when we'd go visit. I'd run straight to those bushes.

I have memories from a very young age...probably at 3- or 4-years-old...of going out there with Bampa to pick and eat the raspberries straight off the plant. He'd point out which were the ripest and sweetest. I also remember that I called them strawberries; though he'd remind me each time that they were actually called raspberries, I continued to call them strawberries. I don't know how I even remember that.

Occasionally we'd stay the night at Nanny and Bampa's. If it was a summer morning, I was handed a turquoise bowl and asked to go pick a bowl full of raspberries so we could have them with our breakfast. There is a picture of luscious red berries against the cheery turquoise color of the bowl that's burned in my brain. It's lit just right by the morning sun. I wish I were a painter so I could duplicate it. It makes me happy.

The combination of bright, blue-skied mornings when the sun is already hot on your skin (like this morning), a bowl of raspberries, and the smell of sun-warmed, fine-rock cement that's intertwined with the rich fragrance of sprinkler-soaked soil, takes me back to the times spent in Nanny and Bampa's backyard.

It's home to some of my most favorite childhood memories. It's where we ate Nanny's perfectly scrambled eggs and cracked-wheat toast with real butter (unless we chose Cinnamon Toast Crunch), argued with cousins and brothers over who got the bouncy/rocking patio chair where we'd eat said breakfast, picked fresh raspberries and put them in her turquoise bowls, ran circles around the house by way of the path we created through the front yard shrubbery, made forts in the "forest," rode bikes down the hill as fast as we could, fell out of trees and lost our air, sneaked in to dip all 10 digits in Nanny's hot wax she had to treat arthritis, skinned our knees, had squirt-gun fights, walked across her yard to Aunt Pat's yard to play in the sand box or sit in the hot tub, and, of course, waited for the perfect moment to ask if she would pretty-please take it to Aunt Looie's pool for a swim.

 Cousins in Nanny's yard! Top left: Benjamin, Donnie, Carrie, Matt. Bottom left: Maggie, Andrew (taller one), Joe (in stripes), Chris, Kimberly, Kristen. While this picture makes me happy, it also brings a tear to my eye as two are no longer with us: Matt & Kristen.

All these memories play back to a soundtrack of perhaps one of the sweetest and most cherished sounds of my childhood, too: the sound of chatter & laughs from my aunts, uncles, cousins & grandparents, all sitting around the backyard patio, taking in the heat of summer nights.

 

Well, it looks like mom beat everyone to the bouncy/rocking chair on the patio this time. Aunt, uncles, parents and grandparents pictured at Nanny's: Left (in red) and going clockwise: Uncle Don, Uncle Lou, Aunt Kathy, Nanny, mom, dad. More are usually on the patio...lots more!

You simply can't beat a summer night in the Valley. And you can't beat the flavor of a ripe raspberry.

I wish I could go back to a time on the patio right now, but I guess this bowl of raspberries, in one of my turquoise bowls, of course, will have to do.