Memories of Blue

I remember BLUE, an abundance of blue! From the age of four, I remember!

Da knew where all the Wild Highbush Blueberries were! Our entire family would walk old rutty, hidden roads, or windy deer paths to patches of these flavorful orbs.

 Lake Jones was a favorite destination.  We would conceal where we were heading as best we could.

Out behind the sand pile, the old road, to another barely perceptible old road, not even a dirt road.

We carried our pails, and walked silently for a while. through swampy areas, dragonflies, deerflies, dusty areas.

when we reached the edge of the lake where there was a knot of trees, with large rocks, the smell of warm grass, and sweet fern delighted me. I love Sweet Fern! 

Da  motioned for silence and to stop.  He waited a minute, then selected me, gave the 'walk silent' sign, and I followed close behind his tall legs.  We crossed the open grass, tall grass, so tall for my wee four years, I couldn't see past Da's legs. Near to the stand of blueberry bushes, he stepped aside.

There, a few inches in front of me,  grass was down in a tangle, larger than me! Da told me to put my hands into it. It was warm!  Very warm! He explained that three doe and two fawn had just left.  This was where they had slept last night. I felt such Honor!

 Da called for the others.  He led me to a spot under the edges of four bushes, gave me three pails, told me to sit there.  I sat there and picked without having to move to another spot.  Looking up, all I could see was blue and green! My family all about me, but out of sight in the bushes, the sound of plunk, plunk, ehoing back to me.

Da had tall pails, with metal handles.  He would loop his belt through the handles of six pails.

With two pails directly in front of him, he gently pulled handfuls of sweetness into them.  When they were full, he would move them over, pull the other two to the front, and continue.

The walk back was a concentration on counting each step, to distract from the pain of the heavy pail handles pulling at the base of my small fingers.  Crows called from the overhead branches when we reached the shaded treed sections of the old road.

Later, at home, the blueberries were gently rinsed.

My mother's bed faced two windows, each letting in lots of sunlight.  Towels were laid out on the bed.

We lazily rolled the blueberries dry, removing any stems or undeveloped ones.

Blueberries were placed into containers and delivered to neighbors that had requested them.

Mom would take a quantity to Hugo's store across the street, trade them for flour and sugar.

Soon we were eating her wonderful blueberry pies and muffins!

(Mom had been a private chef for a wealthy family)

All these years, I desired to have my own blueberry farm, organic highbush!

I live in the hills now, only a few miles from a pick-your-own, organic, berry farm!

Recently, my friend/neighbor Michelle and I visisted this farm. It was a sin to walk away and leave so many blueberries behind.

Delia, Michelle

 Michelle makes delicious blueberry jam. We had a great time, tasting and picking, tasting and picking, laughing, and enjoying the other pickers. We each picked four quarts.  I froze three for the white time.