Does blueberry picking sound like a Fun Time to you?
Bribery convinced my small children: “If we don’t get thrown out of the patch, we’ll hit the bakery later.”
Often, they were too full of berries to finish doughnuts, so Mom obliged them.
I also considered it a rare productive activity, defined as: we made it to a potty in time; no one went to the ER; and I wasn’t nominated for Bad Mother of the Year. Plus, some berries came home.
Years later, our son invited Hubby and me to pick blueberries with his family.
Five-year-old Jonathan bragged, “I’ll pick 35 times 72 pounds!”
Ty the Little Guy wore the world’s cutest sun hat, appropriate for the world’s cutest toddler.
Arriving at the farm, we walked past fields of blueberry bushes. And walked. And walked.
Soon, both boys would need naps. Or Grandma would.
A guide finally assigned us a row abounding in big, juicy berries.
Our tall son and Hubby handled top branches. I covered the bushes’ midsections. I also resigned myself to picking lower branches — and sleeping on a heating pad that night. The boys will grab just enough blueberries to eat and dye their skins.
Jonathan disagreed. “I’m little, but I can pick lots!”
Ty, however, had a beef. Everyone but him received a white bucket. Fill someone else’s? A fate worse than death.
Eventually, he decided Daddy’s bucket would do. Ty dragged it up and down rows, popping through bushes and batting long-lashed, brown eyes at other pickers.
Above flirting, Jonathan picked continuously for more than an hour!
Grandma’s feet gave out. We adjourned to weigh and pay. Ty allowed Daddy to tote his bucket and carry him on his shoulders.
“You’re heavy, Ty. How many berries did you eat?”
Little Guy’s smeary face somehow looked innocent.
“I’ll pay extra.” Daddy sighed. “Next time, I’ll weigh him before and after.”
Jonathan didn’t accumulate 2,520 pounds of berries (35 x 72), but the five pounds he and Daddy picked made him happy.
A productive day. Even Grandma and Grandpa made it to a clean potty in time. Nobody went to the ER. Daddy wasn’t nominated for Bad Parent of the Year, though he forgot to give Ty a bucket.
We had a berry Fun Time.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do you have a favorite fruit-picking memory?
In the small town where our children grew up, Plymouth, Indiana, 500,000 people attend the Blueberry Festival every year–the setting for a book I wrote several years ago.
