Every year for nearly forty years I’ve been working on these same vines. I once had them well under control, but then got lazy and allowed them to spread and thicken. Each spring I feel as if I am renewing an old fight, an aging soldier walking a forgotten battleground. Others probably see just a guy out keeping his piece of the world neat and tidy. Summers and berry picking just evoke much memory for me.
If each day of my life was a page in a book, I’d be up somewhere around page 24,000 today. When I go attack the same vines that I did when I first bought this place, I suddenly feel as if I am back on page 9500, with, of course, some berry juice dripped across a few of the pages.