The letter for today is: D, where I feature darling and damson.
My family has always used the endearment, darling, for loved-ones. When I say family, I mean my mother, sisters and me. Although we remained in touch when he was alive, my father moved to another home when I was seven years old.
Being stubborn and self-reliant, I married young—too young for my own good. I called my husband darling from the start and each of our three children the same. It's a wonder they didn't get confused, but the term never caused any hassles.
When the children were old enough, we used to drive into the hills outside Melbourne, Australia, to pick damsons. No. I'm stretching the truth for convenience. Blackberries stained the little fingers and the prickles tore the darling's arms. But there is nothing like the flavor of a freshly picked damson, ripened by the warm sun. Here in England, I can't find anywhere to get fresh ones.