The Minnesota Farm Woman

Either I was switched at birth or a genetic anomaly, but somehow I ended up in family of berry pickers. Every summer, at least twice a week, we would all pile into the car and head for Dad’s secret blueberry patch somewhere in the Chippewa National Forest.  Picking berries was never my favorite thing to do, so I would usually take a book and after picking the required cup or two could be found in the car solving mysteries with Trixie Belden or Nancy Drew.  The family rule was that if you wanted to eat blueberry pie, you must pick your share of berries, and I really liked blueberry pie. It was Dad’s favorite, too. Even after I married and became a City Woman, I would spend at least one of my summer vacation days in that year’s secret blueberry spot with my dad.  During one excursion in which we had to park half a mile away due to some downed trees, I kept feeling like I was being watched.  You know that creepy-crawly-hair-standing-on-the-back-of-your-neck kind of feeling, and I picked as quickly as I possibly could so we could have enough for a pie and get the heck out of there.  As we trekked the half-mile back to the truck, I was telling Dad about this, and he casually mentioned that he had noticed fresh bear signs in the patch and that we had probably disturbed Mama Bear’s dinner and she was watching and waiting for us to finish.  Eek. There was never a longer hike than that half-mile to the safety of the truck, and with each step, I waited for the sound of the bear to come crashing through the woods to sprinkle us with sweet wild blueberries and hazelnuts and eat us for dinner.  A few years later, my daughter came along for the excursion, this time at a secret blueberry spot way out in the middle of nowhere.  She didn’t like to pick berries any more than I did, but it was a beautiful summer day and we had both taken along a book, because if the picking was good,  Dad could be there for hours.  We were both picking along the edge of the woods when the bushes in front of us started moving and shaking, and we heard sounds almost like snorting coming from behind the bushes.  “Grandpa’s playing a trick on us!” I laughed and stood up to stretch. As I stood, I noticed Dad, bent over and picking berries about a hundred yards away. Looking back at that bush which was still moving and snorting,  I grabbed my daughter’s hand and headed toward him, giving a good loud holler along the way.  He decided that the sounds we heard must certainly have been a chipmunk, but to this day, I believe it was either a HUGE bear with snarling, dripping teeth or a hungry, starving mountain lion.  We kept on picking that day, because the picking was good.  I stayed very close to my dad for the rest of the day. VERY close. Even though I was a grown woman and he was a man in his 70’s, I was still his little girl and I knew he would protect me from anything.  Dad has been gone for many years now, but I think he would be pleased to know that I now have my own secret blueberry patch.  It is not too far out in the middle of nowhere, and I keep a close eye out for “chipmunks” big and small.  I still don’t like berry picking very much, but I sure like the taste of wild blueberry pie, and it seems to taste better if you pick the berries yourself.