Everywhere there is evidence that we are back in the sun's favor. The air is hot and thick enough to carry the aroma of the fields -- grassy, herbal, floral. A friend who has long ago moved to the dry west said recently that she deeply missed the humidity she took for granted all her life, and indeed as I returned from my latest trip to the west, I was bowled over by the smell of cut grass as we rolled through Illinios.
Driving from one end of this county to the other is always a profound experience. There is so much to look at and I am surprised by how "big" it is here. My destination is a farm operated by one of my student's parents. I've been getting messages for days that the blueberries are coming on and picking is not something that can be put off for too long. I can't imaginge how berry picking may have fallen from fashion. I remember many days wading through dewy grass, waving away buzzing flies with berry stained fingers ... and then pies, jelly, sauce over homemade ice cream.
We are met in the driveway by a benevolent and most lazy dog who wanders out from beneath the porch to dismiss us without so much as an "arf." Then a sister and my student appear from the house followed by a young boy who, with only a "come on," quickly disappears with my own berry picking "troops." No matter, the three of us who remain wander out past gardens and quickly come upon bushes and bushes, loaded with fat blueberries the size of my thumb. We begin to pick and soon there are just two of us, the sister, gone without a word or trace. My student and I continue picking and chatting about things like summer, 4H projects, babysitting, berrypicking and so on, until we have filled an entire gallon milk container that has been handily modified to serve this purpose. We head back to the porch and as she weighs the berries, I spy a carton containing quart ball jars full of maple syrup that I remember they made last winter. A fine example of product placement.
On the road home, we drive past fields, farmhouses and barns. I think of other roads and the people who live down them, the things they do -- their work and play. My companion in the back seat claims that he is more of a city person and I try not to feel sad, especially since though I've lived on farms and "in the country," I believe at his age, I may have said the same thing.
When I get to my kitchen I open up my bag of blueberries. Warmth radiates from them. They taste sweet and spicy and of the sun. In my future: Blueberrry Marmalade, Blueberry Sauce, Blueberry BBQ and, of course, Blueberry Pancakes.
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