Richmond, BC, is known for acres and acres of blueberries. Friends of my grandparents have bushes in their backyard. Not a few along the back fence to go with the vegetable garden. They have a whole farm back there. I’ve spent long hours wandering through the bushes, searching for the boundaries. They’re not blueberry farmers; they just liked the house. So every summer, they call up their friends–my grandparents included–and tell them to come pick their fill.
We always do, since I was nearly too little to reach the berries, through the years when I bored easily and hated the bugs, till now, when I look forward to blueberry picking all year long. This year wasn’t the best growing year–too much sun and not enough rain. We’ll be living off the blueberry jam we canned last summer, the blueberries packed in vanilla syrup, and the last bag of frozen berries, dwindling fast with every morning bowl of oatmeal.