I picked N up from school and asked if he wanted to pick blueberries. He was surprisingly enthusiastic, so we went. The farm has a bouncy house for the kids next to the concession area where they sell things like blueberry popsicles and blueberry muffins. First he bounced. Afterwards, he chose the muffin and raved in ecstasy the entire time he was eating it. He hates everything, so this was interesting to me. I'm going to have to find a good recipe for blueberry muffins.
Turns out he is a remarkably good farmworker. The concept of picking enough little berries to fill his pail was not daunting; it inspired him. Of course, he also assumed it was a competition and wanted more than anything to pick more than me. This is what blueberry picking is like when one is all hopped up on testosterone. I tried to be grandmotherly and ignore the competition, but it was a formal challenge! In fact, this challenge was shouted out with great bravado, arms raised with fingers pointed to and jabbing at the heavens. You know how I like to win. I picked with abandon.
We ended up rather even, but when weighed I had a few berries more. That bothered the boy, so the next day he insisted we go back. This time he had a quiet plan involving going into rows all his own, not following me as he had before. Nothing was said about winning or losing. However, he picked fast and furiously. I pretended not to notice, and picked leisurely as a Grandma should.
When we had the pails weighed, one weighed more than the other. I told him the heavier one was his and congratulated him. He bellowed in delight. I think you know the truth.
He looks like his mom. I've seen those eyes!
ReplyDeleteIndeed, you have. They ARE just like his mother's. They are my maternal grandfather's eyes.
DeleteMemories for everyone. At his house, his parents are being regaled with the adventure. The great saga!
ReplyDeleteYes, and he's one of those children who never stops talking. I'm sure his parents are sick of hearing about it.
DeleteI used to love picking raspberries and grapes with my grandmother. She had a small garden, and the fruits were so yummy.
ReplyDeleteWelcome, mxtodis! Thanks for sharing that - grandmother's can be so wonderful, and such an important part of their grandchildren's lives. I had a lovely Grandma. I try to emulate her.
DeleteI love this blueberry picking story. Your grandson is adorable, and you are quite the loving grandma. All that fun for blueberries!
ReplyDeleteit is always fun when he is around, although I am quite exhausted when he leaves. Oh, to have that kind of energy. It is getting harder and harder for me to pretend that I am 6 years old.
DeleteHa! It so funny how everything is a competition or a race with kids. (Particularly, as you pointed out, with boys.) He will remember beating you at blueberry picking for years and years! LOL
ReplyDeleteI hope so! Yes, the competitive thing is hilarious. He also competes with his grandfather for my attention. I quite enjoy that.
DeleteAnd now he can have blueberry muffins, pancakes, and pie at his grandmother's house. Lucky industrious little boy.
ReplyDeleteYes, his grandpa made a blueberry pie the next day. And I gave a lot of the blueberries to his mother for their household. She's a really good baker, and she often lets him help.
DeleteWell done, grandma! Will he get to bake? Or ist that a step too far with such an energetic boy?
ReplyDeleteWe used to be sent into the woods to pick blueberries, collecting them in these tin milk pails with a wooden handle no less, and my mother instilled fierce competition, there was a prize for the best picker etc.
He often helps us bake. I'm always looking for things to keep him occupied and engaged, and baking is one of those things. It is a bit of a challenge because of his energy level, but he loves it. His mother bakes with him, too.
DeleteWhat might the prize have been for the best picker?
Love the way your grandson is looking at you in the photo. A blueberry wonderland! I'm reminded how good fresh blueberries taste mixed with whipped cream. Whatcom County, where I live, grows more blueberries than any other county in Washington State.
ReplyDeleteInteresting! I used to live a bit south of Seattle as a kid. The big deal for my family back then (early 1960's) was picking blackberries. They were fabulous.
DeleteOh how Fun, we used to pick Wild Blueberries in the Woods when we lived in Michigan and then freeze containers filled with them to use thruout the year. I remember picking Strawberries on a Farm that raised them, both activities were fond Memories I never forgot. Are you SURE he didn't Win? *Winks*
ReplyDeleteHa, he ALWAYS wins in my book.
DeleteWhere did you live in Michigan?
DeleteIt's unlikely I'll ever deposit the first comment on an Aging Female post. Not only are your commenteers loyal and appreciative, they wait like lurking saurians. Snap! Gee - just ninth this time. Must do better.
ReplyDeleteI'm about to launch the seventeenth comment. I worry about this. You may think I don't care. True, mine will probably be the longest but that's what you'd expect from an old blowhard across the water. Words are available to everyone, quick reactions are rarer.
Your stratagem with N does you proud but it doesn't get you off the hook. As a grandmother you're supposed to be blind to "a formal challenge". Supposed to be sweet, winsome and to keep things in a pretty little reticule; always careful to stay clear of the boxing ring which defines the son/parent relationship. Oh, and to smell of lavendar.
However, as a writer you've included all the necessary data. This is Thermopylae brought up to date and transported to the Sunshine State. I like "bellowed with delight". Grandsons don't do dignity, their natural state is to be visceral. And here I have the advantage. Once, before the Sands of Time ran dry, I was a grandson. Had I not been tempted towards my mother's typewriter I might easily have grown up to become Josef Stalin. Boy, was I visceral.
Robbie, You do know commenting (like blueberry picking) is not a competition, right? lol I can well believe you were a grandson and now I challenge you to write about your grandmother. I am reaching to and stabbing at the heavens as I write this. In fact, I double dog dare you to do so. Monday is Memorial Day in the States, so that would be a good day to do so.
DeleteI would love to smell like lavender, although my own grandmother smelled like roses.
No I will NOT be blind to a formal challenge from my grandson, what fun would that be? I race him to his father's car each time he leaves my house. And I run as fast as I can. Which is to say, I lose every damn time.
Too funny. I wonder where he got his competitiveness from:)
ReplyDeleteHahahaha. Gee, I wonder?
DeleteI had two grandmothers. One was the wife of a Baptist minister, the other insisted on cleaning the cellar steps at my mother's house in January, caught a cold and died. Aged 96. Which would you prefer?
ReplyDeleteI'm a simple woman. I prefer both. First the one who cleaned the cellar steps.
DeleteBlueberries won't come to me for another couple of months but we go picking every year. I love to see the younger kids there, especially because I think it is important that they understand where their food comes from and why it needs to be protected. And I think it's funny when I hear parents and grandparents saying "not the green ones, just the blue ones" after their little one just presented a whole bucket full of unripe berries.
ReplyDelete