Picking Blueberries

I see the sign at the intersection of Spring Street and Highway 11 every summer – BLUEBERRIES – on a hand painted sign in the shape of an arrow pointing down Spring Street, and then another one at the turn onto Hightower. This is the first year I’ve been curious enough to find out more about these mysterious signs.

I did a Google search last week and found Hard Labor Creek Blueberry Farm – Pick Your Own. I emailed the address on the website, and received a response from the owner within a day. Mr. and Mrs. Kitchen own the farm and open it to the public for blueberry picking every summer. Mr. Kitchen emailed me that the blueberries are abundant this year and to come on out. As a side note, he said that I might need a stool or ladder, which completely stumped me, so I emailed him back asking about this. In his second email, he said that Iprobably wouldn't need one - there were lots of blueberries that I could reach. He also told me that this is the last year he and his wife will own the farm. He is 80 years old and is going to sell it after this season. The farm is only about four miles from our house, so I decided to give it a try, especially since it may not be there next year. I left home yesterday morning at about 9:00 am for a little berry picking.

The only blueberry plant I’ve ever seen was about the size of a small shrub, and I anticipated a back-bending morning of leaning over and picking the little berries until I filled a basket. I really didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t what I saw as I drove down the winding driveway toward a lovely brick ranch house. As I passed the garage, a small sign directed me toward the back of the house, where I saw a few cars already parked. I parked my car, and saw a white pick-up truck with the tailgate down with a sign telling me to take one of the plastic-lined buckets, pick my berries, and go to the garage when I was finished to weigh out and pay. The sign also advised me to walk to the end of the row and work my way back toward the parking area. I didn’t see a single person, but I could hear voices as I took a bucket, and walked toward the sounds of people.

What I saw amazed me. The berry trees were in twenty rows, with a sign at the end of each row explaining what variety of blueberries were planted there. I had no idea how many different kinds of blueberries there were. I also couldn’t believe how big the plants were – they were trees! I chose the pathway between the fourth and fifth row and began walking. I could barely see the other end of the row! I’d guess I walked about the width of a football field when I finally arrived at the end. The blueberry bushes, or trees, were huge, and they shaded the path from the morning sun. The pathway was mowed and wide, and childhood memories of walking through orange groves in Florida came to mind, minus the sand.

At the end of the row was a smiling gray-haired man on a tractor. I knew that this must be Mr. Kitchen, so I introduced myself as his email buddy of the previous week. He knew that I was a novice, so he stepped off his tractor to give me some pointers about blueberries. When a blueberry is picked, he told me, it doesn’t ripen further as other fruits do, so you need to make sure that you pick ripe ones. As you pick, a ripe blueberry will almost turn loose on its own and fall into your hand (much the way wild plums do). If you have to tug at it to pick it, then it isn’t quite ripe, even though it may be solid blue. He also said to try different varieties from the different rows, but that any of them do equally well in blueberry preserves. I thanked him for showing me the ripeness test, and began to pick blueberries.

It looked to me as if all of the biggest and best berries were high up on the trees and beyond my reach. The idea of a stepstool looked pretty good to me. However, I began picking those berries that I could reach and discovered that there were lots of them low enough for me to get to them. Being the curious one that I am, I had to test Mr. Kitchen's ripeness test. I found a berry that looked ripe to me, but it took a good tug to separate it from its branch. I popped it into my mouth, and he was right – it wasn’t ripe! It was hard and sour, and not very good. Then, I found another one that looked exactly like it, but released at touch. It was yummy, sweet and juicy. I decided to take his advice, even if it meant taking a little more time to fill my bucket.

I began picking and daydreaming. Picking berries of any kind is therapeutic and somewhat spiritual to me. My mind drifted with the clouds above, and my bucket slowly, oh! so slowly began to fill with blueberries as the passage of time evaporated. I was brought back to earth when I realized that I was picking nearby another person. She remarked about how hot it was getting and I saw by my watch that I had been out there over an hour and my bucket was barely half full. We began talking as we picked, and soon her bucket was full and she went on her way. I continued for another hour when my blueberry bucket could hold no more berries.

Now, a day later, ten jars of blueberry preserves are in my cupboard, frozen blueberries are in the freezer, and a pint is in the refrigerator. I think I’ll go back out to the farm tomorrow morning and pick again.

How I hope that the person who buys Mr. Kitchen's farm will keep the blueberry trees and his wonderful tradition of opening the farm for people to come out and enjoy picking blueberries.