Essay: Missouri. Blue Gold.

NOTE TO SELF. Picking Blueberries is way easier than strawberries … which now grow too close to the ground. Raspberries and blackberries bushes have thorns; even Mom’s back yard gooseberries have thorns.

My mom, sister and I decide to skip breakfast in order to get to there early ~ the pre-recorded “Berry Patch” message said there were more pickers than berries and warns that it has been consistently picked out by the end of each day. They open at 7 am and we arrive about 8. We know the routine. We walk briskly up to the self service counter, grab a one gallon white bucket, tuck in the heavy duty clear plastic bag and grab a piece of twine to tie the bucket around the waist, allowing for two handed picking.

Patch #1 has a closed sign on it but Patch #2 is open and there are already heads bobbing above the lush greenness. Row after row of fruit laden bushes ~ but we are in search of the bluest blueberries. There are dozens of muffled conversations drifting above the long steaming rows; mothers exchanging favorite recipes, children comparing the taste of warm juicy berries. The birds squawk from the tall treed perimeter, probably discussing the two legged wingless crowd below ruining their dinner plans.

I see a bush with lots of potential and peel off from my family to seek my fortune. Heat, sweating, picking, quiet thoughts, I spread my arms to take advantage of a cautious breeze. “Levi. Levi?” a woman calls out. “Can you hear me son? Norma Jean, have you seen Levi?” I glance around to see if anyone resembling a Levi is in my row. Obviously he has returned, for that section of the pickers quiets down. We all take a deep breath and continue picking.

I listen in as two women one row over from me but totally out of site, discuss the fact that boyfriend Dan is only good for a few select things ~ I understood quickly that he is very satisfying and, I admit, I leaned towards them as they whispered and giggled. Although I could not hear the juiciest details, I do know that he is definitely not husband material as he is addicted to computer games. Poor Dan.

“Mommy, mommy, look at this one. It is the biggest blueberry ever,” a little boy proclaims. With a condescending snit to her tiny voice his sister explains, “I’m only picking the red ones.” "Tatum, honey……” we hear her mother patiently explain that blue ones make much sweeter pies.

“Come on kids, this section is all picked out, let’s go farther down and start there.” “But mommy there’s a lot of ‘em right here,” her young son declares as Mom herds her chicks off in search of easier pickings. On a hunch I bend down and lift up a branch near where the small boy had stood. BINGO! What a score, the lowest branch was covered with the biggest juiciest blueberries ever. The ones I don’t consume drop into my nearly full bucket.

Trying to get out of the patch, hot as we are, is its own challenge. I raise my voice one notch above the buzz, “Marcia?” “Over here” comes my answer. I am at the end of a long row and start walking east. “Over here” I hear my sister call out again. “Marco” I call out cheerfully. “Polo” I hear from more than one section of the patch. Everyone giggles; I smile as I spot Marcia’s straw hat. Even as we agree that our buckets are full, we cannot help but search for the ultimate berry as we slowly exit the patch with our hand picked treasure ~ blue gold.

TIP: Do not rinse fresh picked blueberries before freezing. Rinse them as you use them. Seriously.

* annette