Blueberry Picking - A Family Tradition.

For many, the month of July focuses on our country's three colors, red, white, and blue, but for me, my mid-summer month only revolves around one of those colors; blue.  It's not for politics nor for trending purposes, but in my world, the color blue, in the summertime, represents one of the most fantastic fruits of all, blueberries.  Since I was a tiny child, strapped in a stroller and barely vocal, heading to the blueberry patch on hot summer days alongside my grandparents has been a tradition.  Over the years, I have gone from pleasantly napping in the stroller, nestled in between the bushes while the others picked, to sneaking berry treats in between the real snacks of PB&J's to finally filling my own buckets as a prize to take home and save for the winter months.  

The last time I went to pick, the relaxing sentiment of the experience proved to be the same as always.  The gentle, quirky baaing of the goats and lambs greeted me onto the farm, and the intensely gruff bellowing of the cows kept me company out in the field.  Typically, it doesn't take much searching to find the perfect row for picking, which was definitely the case this time.  

Situating myself under a bush, drooping with pastel produce, I effortlessly began retrieving large handfuls of berries to fill my bucket.  Each berry, plump with ripeness and looking very eager to be plucked, took no pull, just a gentle brush against its delicate skin until it readily fell into my palm.  But once the berry made it into my hand, its journey was not over yet; in fact, it had just begun.  It now had to undergo the ultimate test, which every berry picked must pass; the devour now or save for later one.  Speaking from about 18 years of experience, my rhythm for this test goes something like this; eat one, plop two in the bucket, or eat two (if the berry is bluer than the sky itself and bursting with juicy sweet temptation) and put one in the bucket.  

I know I've already covered a lot about what I love about blueberry picking, but I've left out one crucial detail that gives me great satisfaction; the sound change.  Now, I'm not just talking about the more obvious sound change of the noisy road rumbles getting drowned out by the cows, goats, and chirping birds.  Instead, I'm referring to the most wonderful rhythmic sound change of all; when the plunks of berries falling into the bucket's blank white bottom turn into plops of berries gently and more quietly, landing upon layers of other soft berries previously picked.  

At the end of the picking day - exhausted and burnt by the sun - my belly is full of berries, and my heart is full of joy once again.  No matter how many buckets of berries I bring home, I am always thrilled to have spent an unforgettable day in the field with my forever-picking partners, my grandparents.  I know I'll have to return at least once more before summer's end, but for now, I will take a long night's rest as visions of blueberries dance in my head.