On Tuesday I had a few “free” hours between stops, camp, pickups, babysitting, and work. I did my yearly ritual of going to pick blueberries from a local farm. In all, I picked 11 pounds and have already eaten about half. I love blueberries and find them easier to eat than strawberries.
The major draw of the farm I goo to is that you get to ride out to the fields. Rolling hills, you can see other farms and some big houses in the distance. Reality is far away for a few minutes. Cleaner air, more green. I love being a silent observer to the other people who come. People who drive an hour to pick a pint and leave. Parents trying to take a million pictures of children who have no desire to be there. People who talk about local wineries and those talking about their favorite radio program and local headlines.
I just sit and pick.
Tuesday night something happened that has been a nadir. I received a telephone call at work and a whole roomful of people had to listen to me go on about the police, drugs, and narcotics. My next door convicted drug felon neighbor called the police on a nine year-old family member, saying they “threatened” one of his offspring. According to the story I got later, the police officer asked why he had been called. Since then, we feel like we’re sitting on a tinderbox, waiting to explode. Drug dealer didn’t leave his property for twenty-four hours. We had the windows open that night, acted like nothing had happened, yet outside the air felt like it was crackling. They left the dogs out way later for usual, even for them, and some neighbors we haven’t seen since.
I’m proud of my family members for handling this very professionally and my nine year-old for talking one-on-one with the police officer.
The next night I turned on a movie, ate some chocolate ice cream with the blueberries I picked, had some wine, and sat back.
I’m guessing I have already eaten about five pounds, with some help. I will miss these blueberries when they are gone.