Fall was always a busy time of the year. Crops had to be
harvested and the garden taken off. The house, humid with all the canning we
did, smelled of dill and garlic as well as whatever crop was currently coming
in.
But my favorite fall memory-- really late summer, but the
leaves turned very soon after-- was blueberry picking. It was an all day
adventure. Early in the morning, right after chores were done, the grain box
was loaded with pails, tubs, beaches, blankets and rugs. Then my dad would hook
up the tractor and leave, slowly pulling the wagon north and west, out to the
sand hills.
This was when the lunch was made. The cake was iced, the
sandwiches packed, the lemonade and
coffee all accounted for. If we were going to stay long enough to have a fire
and do hotdogs that had to be planned, too. Then my sister Janet and her
husband would arrive, usually bringing Deedo Poholski with them. Everything was
loaded into a vehicle, and we piled in.
By the time we got to the first big mud hole that a regular vehicle
couldn't drive through, the tractor and wagon would be waiting. Park the truck.
Transfer all the food. Climb aboard the wagon. The trusty little MasseyHarris
tractor would pull through all the bad stretches in the road, and there were a
few, and then we were in blueberry country. It was crown land, all sand hills
and jack pine for miles and miles. Up a hill, down a hill, around a lake,
creepy little floating muskegs, country
fit for bears, moose, and blueberries. Eventually someone would spot blueberry
bushes, and a scout would leap out of the wagon to inspect.
Soon a good enough patch would be found, and we would park.
Someone would be assigned the making of the fire, and we would scatter with our
little picking pails.
I would look down at the first berry bush.
Little scruffy bushes, with dull green leaves, set about with dark
purple berries, dusted
with blueberry blue haze that disappeared if you touched it.
The berries were warm from the sun and sweet on the tongue.
When the pails were
full we would pour them into the tub and go out again, and again.
Deedo had a different
method. He went out with two milk pails. He would tramp through the hills and
we wouldn't see him again until lunch time. His pails would be full and he
picked clean. Only the best ripest berries went into his pail. After lunch, with time to stretch out and
relax a bit, we would pick again.
Always we found muskeg cranberries, glowing red in dark
green leaves, and filled a couple of containers with them, planning for chicken
and turkey suppers.
The day ended in time to get home for milking. Happy and
tired, we rode the wagon out to the truck, and then on home. The work wasn't
nearly done yet. The berries would have to be picked clean of leaves and little
sticks, and preserved by canning or freezing or making jam. There was always
one dessert of blueberries and cream, and pie, too.
Sometimes it reminds me of how hard the little birds work to
get their food. It costs them naught but the effort. Good food, a gift from a
loving Creator.
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