the ideal kind of day
A geriatric dog, a yellow lab, greeted us in the shade of the oak trees that bordered the orderly rows of blueberry bushes. She eased herself up off the ground and began slowly wagging her tail. Her movements were hindered by arthritis or old age, or maybe she just didn’t care to hurry. I didn’t blame her. It was a beautiful Saturday morning on the blueberry farm. There was a warm breeze and only an occasional cloud in the sky. It was the ideal kind of day to take things in stride.
The man standing behind the folding table seemed to be in charge of berry sales. His table was piled with several stacks of large white buckets, a kitchen scale, a pile of white plastic grocery bags, and an open ledger. The tinkling of wind chimes arrived with the breeze. The man wore plaid, as farmers in storybooks do, but he was in his late twenties, or maybe early thirties, and had a head full of coal-black hair. He handed us two buckets, one for each kid, which would hold six pounds of blueberries each.
“They’re $6 a pound,” he said. “But don’t go overboard. A family earlier this morning filled four buckets to the top. They weren’t happy when I told them they owed $144.
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