Tag Archives: blueberries

B is for Blueberry

Encyclopedia of Me Meme

Part of the 15 acres I lived on as a child in Pennsylvania was covered with marshes. During the long humid and hot summer months the marshes would burst with blueberries galore.  Each of us were sent out with a large bucket to pick bluberries for cobblers and jams.  I loved the way the bushes would curve and curl – many time growing so closely together that the branches would arch creating tunnels between them.  I would pretend this was the home for the pixies and elves, and occasionally miniature trolls who guarded the blueberries.  My fingers would get that delighted blue-ish purple stain on them as I poked the biggest juiciest ones I could find in my mouth.  We would trudge back to the house, not only with our buckets full, but with our tummy’s full as well, knowing that in the morning we would have a feast of blueberry pancakes.  Just the thought of them was  mouth watering.

It’s funny how over the years we forget our love for certain things and then the memory comes crashing upon down upon us.  I hadn’t had blueberry pancakes since those farm days. Then, one morning while at Paul’s paren’ts house in Montana, his mom served us delicious blueberry pancakes.  My eyes bulged with delight as I remembered this dear love I had forgotten and relished every bite.

So, what did you think I bought at the farmers market the other day? Why a flat of blueberries of course, and this morning we gathered around the table and enjoyed some blueberry pancakes.  YUMMMM!

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Blueberries

We gathered up our pails and walked out our back door, down the hill, past the barn, through the field skirting the edge of the marsh and reached our destination. Blue berries as far as my short eyes could see. I loved blueberries and I loved the bushes even more. They were magical, home of pixies and elves. Gnarled and bent they would form tunnels and huts, much like giant rabbit warrens. Berries would kaplink into my pail like in my favorite story book, “Blueberries for Sal.” I loved the sound of the berries pinging against the tin, the timbre changing with the size of the berry, a special kind of music. There were no bears here, but I would pretend there were. And they would ask me in to dine, but I was too smart for them and would fatten them up on their berries first. They’d not have me for dinner. I would have tea parties with the nymphs hiding in the bushes, you had to ask their permission to pick their berries you know. If you didn’t they would put a pox on you and each finger would swell until it was humongous, indigo, and round. Somehow my pail never got full, and I know it was the mischievous brownies pilfering my berries.

Mother asked me why my lips, teeth, and tongue were a peculiar shade of purple.

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Filed under Farm Stories, Personal History, Writing