Summer begins on Sunday. We're expecting to see a high today of 92, with about 70% humidity. My sister, Sarah, is heading to the Phish concert at Verizon Wireless Music Center, so I must get a plug in to tell her to have fun with that - I hope the usual crowd makes an exception today and wears deodorant!
I generally do not fare well in this weather - unless I'm in the mood to be grumpy at everyone around me. Which I can't imagine why I would be. There isn't much that will get me out for an extended period of time unless it's water-related. There is a notable exception, however: raspberry picking.
Let me back up... My childhood home, which is no longer standing, sat in the middle of a wooded 8-acre plot in what is now a very busy area of Carmel, Indiana - 116th and Rangeline Road, for those of you familiar. On the edge of our woods you'd find an enormous field next to railroad tracks (now the Monon Trail), lined with hundreds and hundreds of raspberry bushes. I looked forward every year to the buckets of berries we'd collect along that field and down the tracks. No matter how much mom or dad warned, I would always eat half of what I picked, ending up with a stomach ache later in the day. Of course, I would conveniently forget that part by the next year.
It didn't matter how hot it was, and it was usually oppressive - I would be out there for hours upon hours. And if those bushes actually still existed, I would probably be out there today.
So early every summer here at Klipsch, as I park along the woods that line our back parking lot, I keep an eye on the distinctive bushes, waiting for that quick burst of memories.
The photo below is now serving as a memorial to the ripe raspberries seen here. May they rest in peace.