Blueberries
Yesterday my dear friend and I decided to pick some more blueberries. We had been the week before to a nice little farm north of us but it was so hot we quit with just one bucket full. This time we decided to go earlier in the day so we could avoid the heat.
We did avoid the heat—as there was a great deal of rumbling going on which I tried hard to convince myself was just the men working at the nearby substation with a lot of heavy equipment. We both picked as fast as we could; I seemed determined to pick each bush clean—all three of them that chose. The farm dogs joined us—a golden lab retriever, a chocolate lab, and a Basset hound. They all smelled like they had rolled in doggy-do—several times and there was plenty of that in the surrounding grassy areas—and of course, those dogs had to be right next to us to see what we were doing.
I remember our farm dog would eat blackberries on the bush so I was surprised that none of these dogs ate the blueberries that I would toss at my pail, some would bounce out and there were certainly plenty of low-hanging berries.
Blueberry picking is one of the most pleasant outside harvesting things—no bending over, no prickles, and the fruit is easy to see. Planted in long rows with grass between, the bushes/trees get to be upwards of twenty feet high—so if you plan things correctly, you can always have your back to the sun or you can be in the shade.
Then I saw flashes and the air temperature dropped about fifteen degrees. We hustled ourselves to the car, stuffed our blueberries in our coolers, and headed off to go shopping.
Sylvia Weir Art 