The tradition continued into the next generation when I took my three-year-old grandson blueberry picking for the first time.  With his little pail and my big one, we ventured off into the field and down the row of bushes together.  I picked high and he picked low.  Of course, more made their way into his mouth (and mine) than into our buckets.  But he managed to collect the nice blue ones, not the old ones past prime, not the unripe. And when it was time to leave, he didn’t want to quit.  We both found ourselves wandering back to the car while still picking berries along the way.

I think he has my foraging genetics.

After nap time, we made a blueberry pie together.  Of course, we all had it for dessert that night.

blueberry picking

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5 Responses to Tradition

  1. Susan says:

    Your sweet story reminded me of one of my favorite books as a child, “Blueberries for Sal” Jealous of your pie; I know how delicious they are!!!


  2. lexiesnana says:

    The first time we took our granddaughter was at a blueberry farm near by and they gave her a little pail to put her berries in. When it was time to go she wanted to keep the pail and her papa talked the lady into letting him buy it. We were in trouble with her parents when they found out.


  3. rachelle says:

    and YUM!


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