Beginning

It wasn't the raspberries that drew me to southern Indiana. It was my grandparents. Today I made yet another pilgrimage to Seymour, Indiana to pick fresh raspberries. Even though the freshness of the berries hardly makes up for the cost of gas, nearly $4.00 a gallon, I still find picking the berries from the vine far more rewarding than buying them in the supermarket.

My grandmother begins her search for strawberries in May. If we're lucky she finds a patch. I make the pilgrimage from my home in the southern suburbs of Indianapolis to the even more southern city of Seymour, Indiana about an hour away. From there we travel to whichever farm has been bold enough to plant strawberries instead of corn or soy beans, the more profitable crop.

Today was our second visit to a farm near a little known rock quarry in North Vernon. The land in southern Indiana is a blend of rolling hills and flat landscapes. The farm was tucked behind a junkyard of old forgotten cars and a graveyard. We've already taken our pick of strawberries for the season, but the raspberries were calling to me - along with another chance to spend time with my grandparents. I brought my mother and my boyfriend along this time.

We each took a basket from the owner of the land, Elaine, and began picking away as a rooster and hungry goats called to us nearby. It was so pleasantly quiet as the sun beat down upon us and great hawks flew overhead. The only sounds we could hear were our own voices in conversation and the animals. No cars, no burning lights, no TV's or radios, and no sounds of machinery were buzzing in our ears.

At last, I had arrived at the place where I had longed to be all week.