It Was Always About Blueberries
It is a ritual each summer. We grab old ice-cream pails, waiting until the heat of the day has passed, and employ all available hands, even our tiniest ones, to walk down into the field, and out to the patch. It is always the same. At first everyone grumbles. They stall, some kids have to go to the bathroom all the sudden, others seem to completely disappear. I am patient. I find them. I call them. Eventually we all wind our way down to the end of the grassy field. We pick during the golden hour of the evening. It is work. We begin with reluctance, then gradually, some kind of magic begins to take hold. It is the light maybe? The golden hour perhaps, with it’s orange highlights that flood through the trees and cast a glow to our skin. Or it could be, the relief of cool air that hits us after the first of the summer heat waves. For me, it is the humbling and grateful sight of pure abundance all ar...
