Berry Blues

If you haven't perused the comments from my last blog post, there's some pretty funny and creative, and definately true, suggestions for subdivison names. I have a feeling this topic may be explored further in the future.

As if you didn't know (and maybe you don't if you live in a cooler climate), summer has fallen on us like a big, extremely hot, extremely wet blanket. Made of wool. Now are the days of walking out of the house intending to do something outdoors, but turning around less than five steps from the front door. The days when it seems the only bearable way to mow the yard is at 4 a.m. Yay summer.

Last week I thumbed my nose at heat and humidity and drove to a local berry farm for some good 'ol berry pickin'. I'm a pretty big fan of blueberries, especially since they are key ingredients in my very favorite pie (besides pumpkin), the Blue Goose Pie, which is made with blueberries and gooseberries. Nummy. Since my six blueberry bushes I planted last year are now down to two sick-looking, non-berry producing, sparsely-leafed twigs, I have to find my blueberries either in the supermarket or at someone else's berry orchard. One of my far-off goals for the future is to figure out how to successfully grow blueberry bushes.

Which reminds me - did you hear about that British guy who won the lottery? It was the equivalent of 50 million dollars. His biggest aspiration for the cash is to hire an expert to show him how to grow "proper carrots." I hope I don't have to resort to such drastic measures in my blueberry goals.


I arrived at the berry farm early, bathed in bug spray and ready to pick. I must've looked like a serious picker because the Berry Guy immediately handed me two buckets and spared me the picking lesson he'd finished giving the people before me when I arrived. He showed me to a row of bushes heavily laden with berries, and I commenced to picking. It wasn't long before I became aware of the people picking around me. Is it the heat that brings out the inner obnoxiousness in people? And how is it that I'm always around them? Or, is the heat making me less tolerant?

Over a few rows was a woman speaking in a very shrill, very loud northern voice, on topics ranging from ticks to the heat to everthing Southern she's had to grow used to since moving from Minnesota.

"Oooh but my gooooodness isn't it hoot oout already toodaeeey? Eyee shoore am glad I wore dees shooorts, doncha know!" I swear, she was a living, breathing, Minnesota stereotype.

Then I met the guy picking behind me. The Berry Guy called him "Frank", and apparently he's a regular picker. Frank was definately from a foreign country - I'm guessing by his accent to be from maybe Poland. I'm not that great at placing accents, but I was relatively sure it wasn't Australian. Frank was reminded by the Berry Guy to please stay on his row and don't skip around so they'll know what's been picked. As soon as Berry Guy left, Frank turned around and started picking on my row.

I looked at Frank.

Frank looked at me and said, "I pick on dis row."

I said, "Umm...are you sure that's ok?"

Frank says, "Jes...we pay for dees bellies an I pick dis row."

I sometimes wish I didn't have this combination of personality traits that causes me to have an inability to be rude, even when the case calls for it, and a deep-running tendancy to avoid confrontations with strangers. I really wanted to tell 'ol Frank to get himself back on his own row and quit picking just the big juicy berries on MY ROW that were in easy reach, but instead I just kept picking. Pretty soon Berry Guy came back to check on us, and he rolled his eyes and admonished Frank for getting off his appointed row. Frank turned around and picked back on his row until Berry Guy left, then promptly turned around back to my row. This of course meant war. I started picking at lightening speed, zipping around Frank and snatching choice berries. At this point Frank stopped picking and said, "Dis big field...you go pick anywhere."

I think Frank just told me to get lost. I didn't, but I did smile at him and move in even closer. I kept picking right out from under Frank until he finally moved back to his own row mumbling under his breath - possibly something about the rudeness or impertinence of American women, but I don't think he was mumbling in English - and soon left with his mostly full buckets. In the meantime, we were serenaded with more from Minnesota Lady:

'Oooh geez...when I get to heaven, I'm gooona ask God why he made ticks. Wee didn't have dis many in Minneesooooota."

"Isn't it sooo funny how people here talk? (Uhh...us???)

"Ooooh! Dese are suuuch nice joooocy berries! I just hooope I'm not gettin' da chiggers toooo!"

Yeah. Me either. I finally finished my two buckets and headed off to pick a few raspberries, leaving Minnesota Lady to keep chatting with other pickers who were pretending they were deaf.

And people wonder why I want to go through the trouble to grow my own produce.