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.
