One day, Little Sal went with her mother to Blueberry Hill to pick blueberries

I got up early this morning to blog before our run. I was on my way to bed last night and realized that I hadn't written anything here since Wednesday! Horrors! The problem this morning is trying to remember all the things from yesterday that I meant to blog about.

[For some reason this morning, the computer keys sound really thunky. The noise I'm making is more like "rustle clunk thunk rustle" that "tap tap tap." I wonder why.]

Yesterday I went blueberry picking during one of the sunniest parts of the day - 11 to 1. Last week when I went, I got a little sunburn on my forearms. Yesterday, my shoulders. I'm so smart. Not badly, just pink & warm to the touch.

Beyond those trees? The blueberries. They're huge this year. No one has cut the grass between the bushes so it's taller than my head, and, as my brother put, "give me a machete and a gun and I'd be in Vietnam." (Can you tell what someone just read for high school English?) No, don't give me a machete and a gun. Leave me in the blueberries & let me fight my way through the blackberry brambles and tall grass and overgrown bushes, and come home with enough blueberries to break the bank if you bought them in a store.

Q & Katy (not roommate, the other one) met Joey & me there. Q was very talkative, running around and eating unripe berries and offering them to everyone and pretending to sneeze a lot. She pretended to sneeze for about 10 minutes straight. It mainly involved a fake sneeze noise and a lot of spit.

Two things to melt my little heart right there in the sun: she says my name. My whole, mouthful of a name. I'd go around to the other side of a bush and she'd ask her mom where I went. I love it. Also, after weeks of not wanting me to hold her, she fell asleep in my arms on our walk to see the goats (who've disappeared). However, 25 pounds of sleeping child, no matter how many times she says your name, will turn your arms to jello.