The 50 Mile Diet

On my regular walking route with Erin, we pass through a park. Early this morning, it was quiet. The grass was crispy dry. No one was playing baseball on the field. No one was shooting hoops. No kids played on the recycled plastic playground that my kids long ago thought too safe to be fun. No one was playing tennis. Since Erin has an uncanny knack for sniffing out lost tennis balls, we circled behind the tennis courts. Surely she’d find a treasure. Buckthorn was growing wild, crowding out other other growth. It was a tangle of weeds. Erin pushed through and searched but found nothing.

I, however, found black raspberries. The elusive black raspberries were right there. Gorgeous and ripe. I picked a handful and walked the mile home with the leash in one hand and my berries in the other. Local berries. One mile local.