On Monday, July 5th, it was a great day to pick blueberries. We went to northern Pennsylvania at the beginning of blueberry season to find fat, ripe berries to pick. The boys enjoyed getting under the irrigation boom while sneaking a couple of berries in their mouth.
We’re not early birds, so we picked under the hot July sun in the early afternoon, at the start of a four-day heat wave. The predicted temperature–in the high 90’s. The following day promised to hit the century mark–so we were thankful to hit the farm a day before it got to be too sweldering!
The guys, including my husband, decided to take off their shirts while they worked the bushes. There was a speaker in the middle of the field to scare away the birds. It became a little unnerving to hear the rat-tat-tat of gunfire in the middle of a quiet afternoon. Yet, we continued to pick and pick and pick. I finally had enough after an hour, and said, “I’m done. How many do you have?” I asked my husband.
He said, “I think about 5 lbs.”
We took our four buckets and consolidated them into two where we ended up having half the predicted amount. But we left feeling satisfied at the end of the day that we’ll now have Pa. grown blueberries to add to our muffins, pancakes, and cereal in the morning. As we pulled out of the farm’s driveway, we drank our water deeply, melted against the car seats as the air conditioning came out full force, and headed south again.