We are very lucky to have a volunteer mulberry tree on the fence line of our property, with  berries just starting to ripen within the last week. Every single morning Silas pulls on his rain boots (with his pajamas still on) in the hopes that he can sneak through the door when I let the dog out. "But my tummy is hungry for mulberries, mama!"

I grew up with a weeping mulberry tree right outside my front door. What is that, you might ask? Well it's the result of one great-grandfather's tree grafting experiment, crossing a weeping willow with a mulberry, causing many tasty berries to grow on branches that cascaded down where little hands could easily reach them. That tree holds quite a central place in my childhood memories: the purple stains on the sidewalk, the thrill of eating something from "the wild," the anticipation of waiting for them to ripen and the sadness when the birds ate them all. I'm glad that Silas will have his own memories of running outside through the wet grass in summer mornings to gather this little bit of nature.

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