Growing up on my grandparent’s farm, I had the benefit of walking out into the orchard with my cereal bowl and picking some fresh blueberries to go along with my morning cornflakes.
Somewhere in late May, maybe early June, my aunt and cousins would come over and we would drag out the massive nets to cover the blueberries. We would make a night of it. Stretching the net over the structure my grandfather built years before I was born.
Every once and a while, a bird would get inside and we would have to go in there and coax it out. Sometimes the bird had already died.
On Saturdays, I would go out with my grandmother and mother and pick buckets of the bluest blueberries anyone had ever seen. We would be out there for an hour or two. Picking and eating.
There were a dozen bushes, if not more. I have the sales receipt from the early 70’s somewhere here. I have my grandfather’s notes about taking care of the bushes. I have a lot of memories of an amazing man I never got to meet.
Edward. He was a WWII veteran. Factory worker. Farmer. Father of three.
When I was a teenager, I would set my tent up out in the orchard. Sometimes it was just me, sometimes I had company. I’d wake up in the morning to a field of deer. Sometimes a random fox, or a bunch of bunnies.
One morning I woke up in the rain. The tent held up really well, but the minute I got outside and started my journey back to the house, I was drenched. It was one of those day storms that start somewhere before the dawn and carry random bits of thunder along with it.
Already wet, and without the possibility of getting any wetter, I stopped by the blueberries and picked a handful to eat. When I got to the house, my grandmother opened the door. She asked me why I was soaking wet. Then she asked me if I picked her any blueberries.
Stasia. Mother of three. Tender to some of the best gardens in town. My biggest challenge when I was a kid. My best friend for a few years before she died.
Tribe Of Flannel 