Short Story

IT’S THE BERRIES by Sue Wheatley Carr, August 2013

The house that I grew up in was surrounded by blueberries…wild, low-bush in the front and cultivated, high-bush that my father had planted, in the back. Picking berries came soon after learning to walk.

One day in June, after school let out, when I was 7 or so, I trekked up the street at 7am with my big brother, Jack, to pick strawberries. George and Bessie Rounds had a strawberry farm, and kids of all ages picked berries in June, for 2 cents a quart – No, it wasn’t Oklahoma. His mother, Grandma Rounds, kept track of the pickers, telling us to “pick clean” and not to touch the berries because the electricity from our hands would ruin the flavor. I picked 9 ½ quarts that morning – not too bad for a little kid. Grandma Rounds counted out my berries and gave me 19c. There was no rounding off pay-checks, in her field.

Meanwhile, my brother was picking with our cousin, Russell, who was 11. He had on a magnificent white T-shirt. My brother picked a very red and very large strawberry, looked up and saw Russell’s beautiful white back. He let fly with the berry which landed “splat” in the middle of Russell’s back. Unfortunately, Mr. Rounds saw the whole performance and fired my brother on the spot. Jack felt he was fortunate not to have been attacked by Grandma Rounds and her cane.

A few years later, I went to summer camp for two weeks. I had such a good time, I begged to be allowed to return. My father said I could go back for the last week in August if I earned half of the $40.00 that it cost. So, I started picking blueberries at George Rounds’ blueberry patch. This was much easier than picking strawberries, even though they didn’t add up so fast. But, the best thing was that you would get 10 cents a box.

Picking berries brings out the chatty nature of people…So, I would talk to anyone who was close by. An older boy, probably 15 or so, was near me and I started in… Filled with thoughts of my return to camp, I said, “What are you going to do with the money you make?” His answer was, “I’m going to give it to my mother for rent.” Well, that stopped me in my tracks. My dreaming about camp suddenly seemed a little less worthy.

Picking every day for two weeks netted me $18.50. My father allowed as how that was enough of a contribution – and off I went, back to New Hampshire – happy but also a little wiser about other people and their lot in life.

Fast forward, 55 years. Today, I picked blueberries in a “pick-your-own” field.

There were dozens of rows of cultivated blueberry bushes; a net that was strung over the whole field to keep out the birds; 75 or so people, all ages; and each pint cost $2.50. We were told that we could pick anywhere – No one admonished me to “pick clean”. I stood in front of a bush that was dripping with ripe berries – It took my breath away.  It was like the first sip of a gin and tonic on a hot day.  Grandparents and grandchildren  were happily picking together…”Oh, that’s a wonderful box of blueberries”, “You’re a great picker”, etc. Encouragement and happy voices were everywhere.

I picked just shy of 5 pints (in one hour!). When I went to have them measured, the owner said, “We won’t worry about the short pint. Ten dollars will be fine.” My! What a change!… From the “child labor” scene of yesteryear to the “on vacation” field of today.

Berry picking is a religion with me – perhaps because I started so young. But, then maybe it’s because of the wonderful conversations you have or overhear, or being able to cash in on nature’s bounty, or simply being part of a happy scene. Or perhaps it’s the important secrets you pick up…for instance: not everyone has had so easy a life as I have had; some people are scrimpy and others very generous – and which type is to be preferred; and what magnificent fruit is provided by the earth.

If only everyone could have a blueberry patch up the road…

Sue Carr     Brewster     July, 2012

Overheard July, 2013…
”What do you call a sad strawberry.”
“I don’t know, what?”  –
“A blueberry!”