Picking blueberries with Aunt Fanny was an adventure I never wanted to miss. Toward the end of May or the first of June, I could expect to get a phone call letting me know local blueberries at a certain farm were ripe and abundant, and would I want to be picked up around 8 tomorrow morning? Absolutely!
Aunt Fanny usually had a couple of other ladies
with her, but she always kept the front passenger seat reserved for me.
Containers were stowed in her car trunk as well as ropes or belts to loop
through the handles of the farm’s supplied buckets, and then they were tied or buckled
around our waists, leaving our hands free for picking. Once we arrived at our
destination the owner directed us to the next in line picking spot, always in
the hot sun and getting hotter by the minute.
Fanny was a fast picker, outpacing me two to one,
but I didn’t pay much attention, just enjoyed the company and munched a few
berries as I picked, making sure they were good and sweet, which they always
were. Like the others I started picking at chest level, but if I didn’t want to
be admonished, I eventually had to bend and reach for the berries, picking the
bush clean of ripe berries before advancing on to the next bush up the row.
Sometimes the bushes might be next to a pine forest and depending on the sun, some
shade might come my way, but this was unusual, and within a short period of
time, I and the others were hot and sweaty. We dare not take a break because
the sun was advancing in the sky, and soon, remaining in the field would be
unbearable. At some point, upon agreement, we’d have to be satisfied with what
we had picked, grab up our filled buckets, and return to weigh and pay.
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