One of the fondest memories I have of my Grandmother, was when I was about 6-years-old. She and my Grandfather lived on a large sprawling farm at the southeast edge of Springville just before you go up the hill to Mapleton and the Evergreen Cemetery.
One early morning she added a straw hat to her usual attire of housedress & apron, took my hand and the two of us walked along the road fronting the farm following a weedy, overgrown path. We talked as we walked along together. I don't recall the conversation, but I still feel the closeness of the connection we had.
As we started up the sloping hill, she stopped near the end of the pasture under a big tree with many low-hanging branches, low-hanging because they were heavy with ripe, juicy mulberries. There we spent a half hour or so picking berries and sharing one another's company. We ate berries too! They were so juicy and delicious! I'm sure that my mouth was stained as well as our hands. When our pails were full, Grandma took my hand and led me back through the scratchy weeds to the house.
Funny! I have no idea what she did with the berries and I have only vague recollections of the other days we spent there at my grandparent's house at that time, but Grandma, mulberries and honey pails are forever fused and suspended in my memory.
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