End of the season

Stephen and Shea

To plan anything other than blueberry pickin' on Saturday during July or the first weekend in August is just sacrilege around our house. Springville, Alabama might as well be Mecca on those holiest of days on the berry picker's calendar. My husband makes his weekly pilgrimage at 7am.

The particular altar at which he worships is Bear Mountain Blueberry Farm. All this fruity adoration started about ten years ago when I saw a story about the farm in our paper. Seemed like a good thing to do: pay a few bucks to gather a quick gallon before the heat drives you out of the bushes to your car and AC.

It didn't take long for this quick trip to morph into an hours-long ritual that has accrued a few converts to the church. Several friends now join him - albeit not as devotedly - as he gathers the most perfect berries in reach. More than once he's been picking away quietly in his "golden zone", only to hear a familiar laugh and shout, "Rich, is that you?" "Hey, Stephen!" Rich yells back.

This Saturday was one of those perfect mornings with comfortable temps and blue skies. Stephen was already picking with one friend when his buddy Shea arrived, children in tow. Cousin Babsy and I were picking and listening to the children as they dived into a bush. Shea's daughter Guinevere was giving berry picking instructions to her uninitiated friend. "First you find a bunch of berries that are big and you put your hand under them and kind of tickle them, and then the ripe ones just fall off in your hand!"

Sounds good to me.

We harvested our gallon and headed towards the car. Babsy stopped by the barn and found a captivating subject: an old relic that deserved a shot or two.

It was a good harvest for the end of the season. Sometimes, with a little luck, the weather and the berries cooperate and give us a shot at one more visit in August. If that happens, you'll find my husband there, saying a prayer for a perfect season next year.

*All photos in this post were taken by Babs Tolle. She so good!