Raspberries

“These are the last of the season,” she said, spooning all the plump, bright red raspberries into my bowl.

From my seat, I could see the bushes through the old, wood-framed, wavy glass window. It sat directly above what she called, “the washboard” – a term I decided at some point during my childhood was Grandma-speak for kitchen sink.

“And would you like some sweet cream?”

I loved this woman, always looked forward to spending time with her. I visited most Saturdays, taking the back roads from my college dorm to her home in a nearby town. She always had some treat available – a freshly baked pie, homemade fried chicken, fruit from her garden. Each time I told her she needn’t bother, but she insisted, along with the five-dollar bill invariably stuffed into my pants pocket on departure. “Gas money,” she’d say whenever I protested.

“From Winder Dairy? Yes please,” I replied.

Smiling, “Let me get it from the ‘icebox,’” adding, “Sugar’s on the table, sweetheart.”

By the time she returned with the carton, I’d already covered the berries with two heaping spoonfuls.

“Thank you, Grandma,” I said, mixing the contents while waiting for her to sit.

I’d just taken my first bite when she asked, “And how was school this week?”

To be sure, it wasn’t an unusual start to our conversation, usually followed by a question or two about my then girlfriend, Cindy.

Still, I found myself unable to answer. Why? Because I was doing everything in my power not to gag. That sugar I’d sprinkled on the raspberries was actually salt.

I forced myself to swallow.

As I worked to suppress a shudder, my grandmother asked, “Are you all right, dear?”

“Yes … yes,” I responded, raspily.

Over the next half hour or so, we talked and caught up as I slowly finished off the rest of the bowl.

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