Of trails, black raspberries and children

Jack remembered, and I didn't.
The raspberries. Black ones that grow wild along the trail. I've been taking him raspberry picking since he was en utero.
"Let's go for a hike," I said, "on a new trail for you guys." I wanted to take them to Hogsback where they could jump over tree roots and see the beautiful Letchworth gorge from a different angle.
"No, mommy, let's do the raspberry trail," Jack said, pointing to the tall grassy trail that leads from the Mount Morris Dam to Al Lorenz Park in Mount Morris proper.
I stood there by the pond where we had been looking in vain to see a frog, impressed with his memory. It's been such a cool summer, so un-summery, I seem to be forgetting everything we usually do. Or, it's just my memory loss in general. I used to have a great memory. Now I walk into rooms and have to stop and ask myself over and over what I was looking for. Jack can be my replacement memory.
I fished a 2-cup tupper I happened to have in the van, put the baby in my Baby Bjorn carrier -- the same one that held Jack and Ellie on their first berry picking adventures -- and we set off. Hiking with a 2- and 4-year-old is not an experience in distance. It's simply an experience. One with discussions of butterflies, why we can't reach the black cherries, what kind of animal poop that is on the trail, why the tiny, round, red berries are very bad for us.
And then it's the find. Jack the raspberry scout and Ellie the raspberry picker found them, a small bush about 150 yards in. And then another bush and another.
I have lots of memories on these trails from my five years in New York.
When we were first married, Bob and I ran these trails together. He showed me what, at the time, was the big berry bush and we sat and talked and ate the handful of berries we could find off it. I love to glean and wanted enough to make jam, but the birds and deer and perhaps other pickers beat us to them. Over the years, that bush has been crowded out by other bushes. Other black raspberries popped up, though.
The first time Jimmy ever ran away from me -- one of the three times he thought he could catch a deer -- was on this trail. Jack in the baby carrier and I paced the trail for an hour waiting for him to come back. He did. With his ear pinned to his back by stickers and every other burr you could imagine plastered to his coat. He's much more mellow now as a five-year-old, content to run the trail and happily tag along with us in his favorite element.
So many other walks. Crunching leaves in the fall. Berry picking every year.
Now these are Jack's memories, July picking with Mom and Ellie and Robbie and whomever else comes along. Today, he was Mr. Let's Find Another Bush. Mr. Come On You Guys Are Walking Too Slow. Mr. Mom Didn't You Pick Everything Off That Bush Already.
Ellie was eager to pick, but as I hadn't planned on it, we weren't properly dressed. Black raspberry bushes bite. And after a few pricks, she was very wary, although she tried multiple times, very gingerly, to pluck the sweet berries from their thorny homes. That left me picking (also not properly dressed.) Berry picking is a job best done in Kevlar. Long sleeves, pants and shoes will do in place of that. Without that though, you just have to be very, very careful about what you touch. And you have to stare in frustration at the ones you just KNOW you could reach if only. I have a few splinters to remove because I was too eager to get just that berry over there. One more, kids, one more and then we'll walk.
I had to put poor Robbie on the ground several times to keep him from getting kissed by a thorn. He was more interested in eating the berries, though. Of all of them, he came home looking like he'd been in a war with red juice smeared everywhere.
We picked and walked. Picked and talked. Soon, an hour had passed and they were picked and hiked out. They are small. We made it all of probably a half a mile.
But what a great half a mile.
They were eager for the van, water and a snack for the ride home.
I thought we should just eat the berries.
Mr. Memory remembered that last year, we made them into smoothies.
And when we came home, he marched to the cupboard and pulled out the smoothie maker.
Naturally, that is what will happen to this two cups of tiny, black berries.
And for one moment, they will make their own summer memory. Milk shakes or smoothies with their own berries. A real taste of summer.
And for me, a fantastic memory I hope to keep.

Addendum:

How children eat black raspberries. Jack and Ellie, politely in a milkshake, spitting out the tiny seeds as they go. Robbie, picking them up and mashing them all over his head. Nice.