"Come on, honey, let's go up into the woods!"

In an excited voice, my father would say those words to me during the dog days of summer. Upon hearing them, I knew exactly what he was talking about: picking wild black raspberries.

Growing up in North Huntingdon during the '60s, there were still quite a few patches of woods separating one street from the next. Very few people had access to this particular treed area, which was located at the top of our yard.

So, I always considered this special woods as "ours."

It was our woods, our path, our trees, our berries. Up through our backyard we would traipse, into that lovely patch of greenery, following a narrow, rugged path, well-worn by my dad and me throughout the years.

We probably started on our ventures into the woods when I was about 3 years old. I remember my mom would dress me in long-sleeve shirts with rolled-up sleeves, long pants tucked into my rubber rain boots, and gardening gloves. An old straw farmer's hat would droop down over my eyes, and during the summers when mosquitoes were bad, my father wrapped my head with fine netting.

What a sight I must have been! I didn't mind, though, because I was with my dad, who was attired similarly. That was just what one wore to go berry picking. We would search in our cellar for the aluminum pails to collect our loot of berries. Then, off we would go.

Once we had reached our special spot, we would veer off from our path, stepping over mossy logs and poison ivy, brambles and rocks, until we reached our blackberry patch, tucked away in the verdure of our forest.

I will never forget the awe that I felt when we first spied those luscious, glistening blackberries, on their heavily laden branches almost touching the ground. My dad would always tell people that some berries were as big as the first knuckle of his thumb. It's funny how certain expressions never leave one's memory.

Then the fun would begin. We would collect our juicy, purple treasures one by one, being so careful not to damage these delicate, natural works of art. I remember the thorns tugging at my shirt sleeves and the netting around my hat. I recall the prickly sting of the thorns that would somehow find their way through to my flesh. But, we persevered in our task at hand.

My father would also warn me of snakes that appreciated the fine fruit as well, so as we were picking, my dad and I would sing. Supposedly it was to thwart off the lurking reptiles, but to be honest, I knew that my dad just loved to sing.

"Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy ..."

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine ..."

"Let the sunshine in. Face it with a grin ..."

Those songs still tug at my heartstrings these many years later. As the temperatures climbed, so did the beads of perspiration that collected on our brows. I remember the sweat dripping into my eyes, and the salty taste upon my lips.

But, we continued with our tradition, picking our fruit until our pails were full to the brim. We knew my mother's scrumptious blackberry pies would be our reward for this labor of love.

Before our return to civilization, my dad and I would look at each other, and with words unspoken, we knew that we were creating a memory that would last throughout our lifetimes.

My husband and son know how much I love berries. Sometimes, I wonder if I really love the taste of the berries themselves, or the precious memories of those berries that give me such joy. I think it's a little of both.

I now have berry bushes planted in my yard, but for some reason, it's just not the same as going "up into the woods" with my dad.

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