My grandma (we called her Bama because my brother, the first grandchild chose this name, this pronunciation) took us for walks on the dirt roads bordering her white clipboard house and we picked blackberries in the bushes way up high above the deep clay ditches.
“Hit the ditch!” She’d holler if she heard a car coming. We’d all chant ” Hit the ditch! ” and jump into the ditch waiting for a car to pass us all standing wide-eyed and obedient to Bama.
This morning, almost 50 years later, I pause to guess how much longer for the blackberries to change from pinkish to a vibrant hue of purple so that, on my walk, I will stop in this empty lot to pick berries and then carelessly pop one or two unwashed, into my mouth as I turn back towards the street to my home.
I will return to a time spent with cousins, a makeshift baseball field in the front yard with old seat cushions as bases, boys versus girls with mama and Aunt Boo under the chinaberry acting as our umpires. Every Sunday we played baseball on Peacock Hill. We were big time!
So, note to my chubby, freckled-faced, shy “Bama’s girl”…you would never believe it…but you will grow up and leave the country. The country, tho’ will never leave you…you will find it wherever you go.
How amazing is it that my walk through a neighborhood development is bordered by blackberries and honeysuckle?
God is everywhere. Don’t forget to notice.