There are things are so entirely habitual, that one forgets that there was ever a time when this was not in existence. For me, one of these things is blueberry picking.
By the time I was old enough to remember, and possibly even before that, I was old enough to go blueberry picking. No summer has ever been complete without a trip to the farm. It is always the same farm, and it is always the same bushes.
The changes are always small, but never insignificant. As time goes on, the wagon grows lower to the ground, and the bushes no longer loom like trees. You don't fear times when you are separated from your mother, or feel the need to stop everything you are doing in order to make an urgent trip to the bathroom. The ride to the berries halves with every trip, and the amount of berries collected doubles with every inch grown.
You always seem to think the same thoughts. Despite the fact that your bucket fills quickly, you are certain that Robert McCloskey's Sal from Blueberries for Sal and you would have gotten along very well. The largest and ripest berries are picked and eaten instantly. With age, you have become better at blueberry picking, if only so that you can eat them faster.
Messy fingers bringing ripe berries to smiling lips, and you take another berry from the bush. The most perfect taste that invades your mouth reminds you of childhood, of summer, and of your love for tradition.