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The children looked forward to picking. We could usually find just about anything, from blueberries in early summer to raspberries and blackberries in August. Every year - except one. "There's nothing around here to pick!" five-year-old Julie complained, poking a stick into the dying fire one late summer evening. The season had been too dry; what few blackberries were left on the bushes were hard as marbles. "Yeah. I looked all over," added four-year-old Brian. "Wish there was something." That night, after the kids were zipped into their sleeping sacks and I was sure they weren't awake, I handed Bob a bag of large marshmallows and I grabbed a bag of the miniatures. "Get the lantern and follow me," I said. "We're going to make a memory." "What?" He looked puzzled. I told him about the kids'campfire conversation and Bob grinned, "Let's go!" The next morning over pancakes, I said, "Kids, I think you're going to have something to pick today." "Really!" Julie's eyes shone. "What?" "What?" echoed Brian. "Marshmallows," I said, as though I'd said it every summer. "Last night Daddy and I walked down toward the lake and it looks as though they're just about ready to pick. It's a good thing we're here now. They only come out one day a year." Julie looked skeptical, and Brian giggled. "You're silly, Mom! Marshmallows come in bags from the store." I shrugged. "So do blackberries, but you've picked those, haven't you? Somebody just puts them in bags." | 
