There wasn’t anything accidental about blackberry season in our family. When harvest time came, dad had the harvest trip mapped out long before the berries ever ripened.
The same narrow country roads, year after year. Ditches, fence lines, and creek beds. None of them were the main roads in or around Ashdown, Arkansas. These were the back roads. Roads that originated as wagon paths in the 1800s, and wound their way through what just decades before had been thick, Little River ...
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