Seasons

I anticipate the seasons like I anticipate the arrival of the UPS truck in my driveway. An awakening of the senses--the change in the air, vibrant colors surrounding me, traditions that are the same from year to year and yet different in the details.

Summer brings freedom. The calendar on the wall stands bare, waiting to be filled by ink and with costly commitments, and yet I only turn to it to see the photos of my family from summers past. Blankets that are regularly found on couches and floors are neatly folded and unused. Coats and sweatshirts are unnecessary as are shoes and socks, and I relax, feeling the sun upon my skin, and rejoicing that for once, I feel comfortable outside. Bedtimes are non-existent for there are beckoning trampolines, placid sunsets to watch and fireflies to catch. Even the van stands ready to drive us to the usual appointments but is surprised to find itself whisking us away on unplanned adventures. I think the dogs are the only family members who shrink from this season as they pursue the shadows and dream of snow.

I could see the evidence this past week as I worked in my garden. The blackberries were at their end as were the strawberries, and the cantaloupes' arms were stretching past their neat and orderly rows. A phone call went unanswered, and my anticipation grew. Was it time yet?

The next day, the bikes were hung in orderly rows on the back of the van. Plastic containers of various sizes and shapes were stuffed into a plastic bag. "Containers of hope" I should have called them. Our legs were covered with protective shorts and capris and any leftover bare skin was covered in insect repellant. More anticipation as I wondered if all the preparation was for naught.

Driving up the mountain, air conditioning was abandoned for the feel of the wind on our faces through open windows. Manicured lawns disappeared, replaced by wildflowers and trees that only God could have landscaped. A short stop at the ranger station before the final drive to the boat launch. Canoes and kayaks beckoned as did the cool water, but instead the bikes were unloaded, the dogs were unleashed and we headed down the trail.

Trees. Water. Pine needles. We were surrounded by beauty and yet the question remained in our minds. Minutes ticked by as we negotiated the narrow path. Finally, feeling that we must be too early or we must be in the wrong place, we stopped to turn back. Johannah and Gloria seemed a bit too happy to turn around and I realized that they had ulterior plans which involved themselves, the pups and the lake. I could tell John was questioning my knowledge, but I insisted that we keep looking.

As my foot touched the bike pedal and I readied to find another path, I saw it. The unmistakable reddish-purple tint. My eyes strayed a few inches and refocused. Reddish-purple, green, bunches of green, and finally blue. I hadn't been wrong. I hadn't been early. All of the signs had been there, and now I had found them. Blueberries.

At first, it was back breaking work, finding the lowland blueberries. One at a time, they were plucked from the bush, small things, barely registering in the large plastic containers. John asked if this was how it was done before, and I reassured him that Martha Stewart said these are the best. However, I knew that my back would be unforgiving and I wondered where the others were.

We picked for half an hour, more ending up in our mouths than in our Tupperware. Admitting defeat, I resigned myself to the fact that we would need to find the highland bushes if we were to collect enough to take home. Turning again towards the bikes, feeling a bit discouraged, I was again preparing to leave when I saw the tall bush on the opposite side of the trail. It was all I could do to not trip over the roots and branches of trees to reach it. Loaded with berries of blue, I knew I had finally found them. I only had to hold the container underneath the berries to pull many at one time. They plinked and plunked until finally the bottom of the container was covered and the berries began collecting.

Picking blueberries is an addiction where I am constantly looking for "just one more". One bush leads to another which leads to another. As soon as one of us would say we had enough and were ready to go, another bush would magically appear, calling us to unload it of its bounty. Despite all precautions, our legs were scraped raw as we continued to reach for berry after berry. Like visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, I saw the possibilities, both immediate and far-reaching. Summertime salads and late-morning muffins, loaded with these tastes of heaven on earth. A bit of summer remembered when the wind blows and heavy sweaters are required. With containers filled, we left, planning to return within a week to capture our berries' immature siblings.

Summer brings freedom. Freedom from the plastic packaging and high prices of the grocery store. Freedom to taste berries fresh off the bush and understanding the fascination that our bear friends have with them. Freedom to spend a day under the trees, feeling the sun on our backs, keeping our informal appointments with nature and with each other.