The Road South

By Beth Yarbrough

The road South pulls me home through countless summers past. I can still taste the blackberries.

Growing up, wild blackberries used to grow along the pasture fence of my neighbor, Mr. Buff. We had to brave chiggers in order to get to those berries, and we did it gladly. Funny how an image can take you right back to a place you had long forgotten. When I look at this scene from rural Georgia, my feet are suddenly bare under an August sun, and I’m eleven years old again.

Many of my generation had freedom to roam, and summertime was an open door to the magic kingdom. It still is for me. That piece of my pre-teen self took root and never left. These days it pulls me out the door and down the nearest backroad, hoping to find adventure.

This is the time of year when I am most joyful. I’ll be hitting the road at the end of this week. The fields are flush, the sun takes its sweet time leaving at the end of the day, and somewhere out there, wild blackberries and summer memories await.