Up Close and Personal

Most folks know a blueberry bush when they see one. But few get to know the creature as intimately as I have this past week. Been spending hours a day in their company, wrangling branches that have sprawled across the aisles between rows, positioning small clusters of immature berries so they get optimal sun exposure, and generally tidying-up. Bush-by-bush, branch-by-branch. High overhead, low to the ground. Berkeley, Bluecrop, Nelson, Blue Ray. Regardless of the particular cultivar, such in-your-face familiarity with a plant breeds a fondness for it that follows you home, back up the path to dinner.

Sounds crazy, and maybe it's more to-do with working in the hot sun and having plenty of time out there to think your own thoughts, but I've discovered some sensual pleasures in the art of tying a bush. I didn't notice the scent of the leaves for a while. But plunging your face into a thicket of new growth awakens you to the rich musky essence of the plant. Dangling clumps of berries tickle your ears. And all around there is the stillness of being alone with the bushes-- even though Gale or Rhonda may be working the other end of the aisle, just a row or two to the east.

If vacation may be defined as a change-of-pace break from routines, this is it.  I am forced to move slowly and methodically.
I strategically eyeball each connecting point for a support before pulling an appropriate length of twine from my pocket and snipping it with my scissors. Then I loop and knot, lift and stretch, then loop and knot on the receiving branch, while watching out for tender new shoots and fragile fruit  that can easily be crushed beneath the twine when I pull it tight. Such mindful work forces uncharacteristic patience in me--- a steady, one-step-at-a-time approach to a task that I rarely permit myself at home. When it's break time or the end of the workday, the meditative state I've slipped into is interrupted when Joe clangs the cast iron bell at the shed and calls us in.

Today we're heading into Providence to visit a few ancestors interred in the historic Newman Cemetery. Several generations of Walkers are of Pilgrim origin, dating to the mid-1600s. So far, I'm only acquainted with them via ancestry.com, so I'm looking forward to a more tangible connection. In addition to being weavers, deacons, poets, constables and soldiers, they were all stewards of the land they settled. Methinks they grew blueberries.