The end of summer, when it was still hot though, always meant freshly ripe blackberries. There was a covey (if that’s the term) of blackberry bushes (or trees? The bushes were enormous and may well have been trees) around the “corner” from the house where I lived in the country, (thus, “around the corner” being a relative term).
At that age, very young with even shorter limbs where every distance seemed at least a mile, the trek was up the hill arduous, yet quite worth it. The walk itself, despite the intense heat and humidity, which slicked your skin with moisture and made the dust stick to you, was actually not all that bad. In fact, all you thought about and all I remember now is the taste of those stolen blackberries.
The walk would begin up the dirt path that melted into the clover --the clover not quite like anything you might be used to, for this was _real_ clover: tall and sensuous, long-limbed and green, with a glorious bright, light purple head at the top. When you pulled your nose up close, the scent was intoxicating, and you could see why the horses loved it. The scent, besides the heat and the dust, was the scent of honey and flowers, but not in a heavy way; you just wanted to eat it, and the marvel was that you could (sort of).
The field we had to walk through was pure clover, so there was nothing to see for the entire trek but the tall, purple-headed clover, the strong green grass struggling around and in between it, and the short, weirdly stunted sour apple trees, (from which we also gleefully stole when they were ripe too).
As you walked in the midday heat, the sun burning the top of your head, the anticipated memory of the plump, warm, wet blackberries in your hands, heavy and tangy sweet, the clover grass gently scratched against your legs, inviting you to stop and roll around with it instead. You knew if you laid down, the grassy meadow of purple and green would be strangely soft, like that scene out of The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy and friends are lulled to sleep by the witch’s poppies.
And maybe you did lie down, because it was so hot, with flies and gnats buzzing around your ears and head, eager to take a bite of your warmth, as if it wasn’t already hot enough. And, if you closed your eyes, you might pretend you could feel the earth start to spin beneath you, but maybe you didn’t stop, because that feeling was so much more intense when you camped out at night, before the grass became too wet with dew, and the stars pressed down so close they formed a black velvet blanket above you.
And, maybe you didn’t stop, because a few steps more and those blackberries would be staining your hands and your mouth.
Regarding Object Writing http://www.spencermichaud.com/2012/10/songwriting-101-writing-from-experience.html#.VCLC4RY2Xct