Blueberries, that is. Yep. My fridge is now home to a 3-quart basket of blueberries that I bought for 20 bucks. That is not a complaint in any form, either, even after Ruby’s latest foray into yesteryear, shortly to follow. 3-quarts of blueberries that I didn’t have to pick, clean (well, rinse, maybe, but a single stem on nary a berry can I see), or get sunstroke for. These ones were picked by Ruby’s granddaughter for 5 bucks cheaper than the stranger-picked ones at the grocery. I’m happy. Ky will be purple in a day or two.
Anyhoo… Ruby said tonight:
My mother picked blueberries every summer. Every dang summer, she packed us all up and made us pick blueberries, too, there was no way out of it. She was still picking blueberries when she was 80, and she was better climbing those hills than any of the grandkids.
One summer, when my daughter Mary was just little, I had to work all day, so I got out of it. Mary was old enough to pick, though, so my mother made her go. All the kids had to pick blueberries, but they got to sell what they picked when they got back. And Mrs. Keach down the road would pay $2.50 for a 6-quart basket, can you believe that? ‘Course, $2.50 was different in them days, too.
Anyways, one day that summer, my mother couldn’t go berry-picking for some reason, I don’t remember why, and I was working, so she sent my dad off with the kids. My dad hated picking blueberries, but he wasn’t about to argue with my mother, so he packed them up in the car and away he went.
Well! They picked that car full of berries! That was a good summer for blueberries, not like this year, which is why you only got 3-quarts instead of the 4-quart basket I thought was coming… where was I?
Me: They picked a car full of blueberries…
Right. They come home that afternoon with all the kids balancing all these baskets just full of blueberries on their knees, and braced on the back seat of the car. That was down back behind Bruce Mines, and my dad had to drive down a steep hill on a dirt back road with a sharp turn at the bottom of it. And didn’t some ijit come around that corner and run right into my dad?
Well! You know how blueberries are…!
Pause in story while Ruby laughs.
And laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs – I’m not kidding, I didn’t think she’d ever be able to stop. But I do know “how blueberries are”, and I could just imagine the state of that car after the ijit run into Ruby’s dad. So I got laughing, too, and it was some time before Ruby got to her dad having to break the news of this accident to her mother…
Well! My dad had to come home and tell my mother that the car was banged up, all set to reassure her that at least nobody was hurt, least of all any of the kids.
Not once did my mother ask after the kids, or my dad, or the car. But she was fit to be tied over all those wasted blueberries. Can’t say as I could blame her, really, at $2.50 for a 6-quart basket, though.
Random Song for the Day: “Eulogy” – Tool