A snapping noise echoes through the forest.
I set my berry-picking bucket down and listen.
Is it a bear? I really don’t want a meet-up with a large wild animal since I’m alone in the woods, picking blueberries at an undisclosed patch somewhere up the Gunflint Trail.
The sound does not repeat, so cautiously, I kneel and continue dropping berries into my pail, relishing the juicy plopping noise as they hit the bucket bottom.
Sun beats on my shoulders. Theblue sky is cloudless.
Perfect berry-picking weather; the air is scented with pine and a hint of red raspberry. Thenearby roadside is filled with raspberry bushes, and I plan to also harvest a pile of these delicious treats before I leave for home.
Right now, blueberries are on my mind.
Glimpsing what look like blue orbs, I move deeper into the woods and find a batch growing among mossy hummocks, the fruits large and juicy.
The fresh smell of green growing things fills the air, the moss is soft under my knees and somewhere in the woods, nuthatches sing their wonky song. I take a deep breath. What could be better than this moment in time?
Surrounding me are the greens of growing things—the dark green of spruce, the bright green of moss. Grasses and small alder show neutral green.
My fingers pluck blueberries from their stems and drop them into the bucket.
This would be a good place to die, I think. If it were my time, and if I had a choice, I would like to pass from this world in a blueberry patch. Why not? I can’t think of a more heavenly spot from which to go.
This thought flies from my mind as I spy more blueberry bushes on the edge of a small rocky hill and move in that direction.
The warm air is so filled with the scent of green growing things and tree sap flowing and blooming asters and pearly everlastings that I can taste the sweet flavor of summer.
For the next two hours, roam and ramble through the woods; no creature larger than a noisy red squirrel joins me. Every 15 minutes I stop to drink water and think of how sensible I’ve become in my advancing years.
As a younger woman, my friends and I picked berries in marathon style, trampling through the woods in all-day events, stopping only briefly for a bite of lunch. But no longer. I have become sensible.
At the end of two hours, I understand that this blueberry patch is not monumental but on this warm summer day I will harvest enough. There will be a week’s worth of blueberries to sprinkle on cereal or to lavish with heavy whipping cream.
Tired, sweaty and happy, I walk back to my car, eager to turn on the air conditioning.
If given a choice, some people would choose to die while playing tennis. Others might pick a golf course or the top of Mount Everest. I would choose a blueberry patch.
But not too soon.
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