Everything. Good stories...the kind you can get drunk on...the kind that fit in those little small bags that are really small and take with you. Heh! There was this once somehow Mom heard they were picking berries on Old Man Niemela's farm, up above Dollar Bay? So...she signs me up...not that you needed to be signed up all you had to do was show up in front of Pasco's Big Boy Market...I forget what time, early. Old Man Niemela would show up in a red pickup, a painted-red plywood topper covering the bed, tailgate down, rope slung across the opening, kids in the back squatting or sitting. She packs a lunch, Ma does, but we don't have any small bags, the kind you put your lunch inside...all we had were these big satchels, the kind that hold about a hundred dollars worth of groceries today. So...there I am, walking down the sidewalk, an American worker bee on my way in the world, lugging this big bag with my peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and something to drink...one of the lesser known pops. Tab, maybe...Shasta. The kind you can buy a case wrapped in plastic and it lasts forever cause even though you're a thirsty kid, the taste isn't quite there.
Anyway...I hesitate to make piles...all because of that day after the Fourth of July when I went to pick berries on Old Man Niemela's farm.
..ended up picking #2 berries....but that's another story.