Reflections - Disappearing Blueberries
Ripening Blueberries
I don’t count blueberries before they ripen. I do drool.
Spring clusters of green berries bring to mind the fresh baked fragrance of blueberry-apple pie, the twangy-sweet taste of blueberry drop cookies, and the dark blue fruit polka-dotting steamy-hot oatmeal.
Drooling and daydreaming don’t get a harvest. It takes work.
Spence taught me to rake needles from under the old pine stand and mound them in donut shapes around the bushes in fall. “You don’t have to weed,” he’d said. Of course I did.
Then, I pulled the rattly garden wagon to the old pine stand. Avoiding bird droppings and tossing twigs, I scratched the leaf rake over the ground. Blue jays scolded from pine boughs. The orange straw released a piney fragrance. It also provided acid soil and discouraged weeds. I mounded it a foot high to be extra discouraging.
On a steamy Thursday in mid June, Spence agreed to help cover our four mature blueberry bushes in the north garden. Their twelve foot square cage had a chicken wire bottom and frame of PVC pipes on top to hold row cover cloth.
An exhaustive search through the basement, cold cellar, and garage turned up the supplies we needed—binder clips, saved reusable cable ties, a new package of row cover cloth, and cloths stored from past years. We lugged the materials outside and dropped them beside the cage. My mouth dropped too. Weeds had found their way through the thick mulch. Covering would have to wait. I fetched garden gloves and a trowel.
Crawling between bushes, I dug dandelions, white root, and thistles.
Outside the cage, Spence pushed the hand mower. It puttered along, choked on a tough bit, and puttered on again.
When the mower silenced, I shouted, “Bring the big shovel.”
He returned and leaned on the shovel. “Why?”
I pointed. “The trowel won’t dig those huge things.”
“Elephant ears.” Spence snuggled the shovel under the leaves, loosened the soil all around, and lifted the giant out. Freeing two more, he reached for my hand. Because he calls me his fragile butterfly, he limits our time outside in hot weather to forty-five minutes. “Time for a water break.”
Though I wanted to finish weeding and get the cover up, I was sweltering. Sweat soaked my hair and dripped down my forehead. I grabbed his hand and followed him. He drank water—carbonated lime flavored. I gulped rooibos ice tea and trudged back to finish weeding.
The next day Spence lugged the coverings outside, dumped them beside the cage, and brushed his hands together. “It’s your project. Where do you want me?”
“Back there.” I pointed to the corner by the tall spruce tree. Grabbing the end of an old cover cloth, I squeezed between the cage and the spruce branches. They brushed my face and released a sweet-spicy scent. Pulling the cloth along the frame, I realized I’d forgotten the binder clips. Not a problem. Spence would expect me to change my mind. “Come hold this.”
With the breeze helping lift the old and new cloths over the eight foot frame, we clipped them to the back and middle of the frame before he trundled off on his tractor. Being sure not to leave any gaps for birds, I replaced the clips with cable ties. The flapping white cover attracted spiders, bees, and flies. Ignoring them, I slit holes with scissors, stuck the ties through, and secured the cloth to the PVC pipes.
Clouds rolled in. Spence called, “Water break.”
“But the cover isn’t secure and it’s going to storm.”
He motioned toward the house with his head. “It’s a good test. The storm will find weaknesses. You can fix them tomorrow.”
The storm didn’t find any weaknesses. I finished covering and whispered to the berries, “You can ripen as fast as you want now.”
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| North Garden Blueberry Cage |
Those words would come back to haunt me.
I managed the six south garden blueberry cages alone. Each had the same design—chicken wire bottoms and PVC frames at the top to hold the row cover cloth. In a forward bend pose on the steamy, ninety degree second day of summer, I pulled out chickweed, ground ivy, and thistles. The wire jabbed my belly, and branches knocked my sun hat off again and again.
The next week I stretched used cloths across the grass to find the least holey. My hand brushed the remains of sticky moth chrysalises. After rubbing the yuck off on the grass, I patched the covers as if piecing a quilt. I hung and secured them, mouthing a clip or tie to wave at honking neighbors. I never knew which neighbor because their vehicles—throwing up dust clouds that drifted to the cages and me—passed faster than I could turn around.
By June 29, I’d covered all the bushes. Bears, raccoons, and birds would not get another blueberry. The rest were for me—or so I planned. Every other day, I peeked into the cages.
Finally, on July 10 when milkweed gave off a heavy, sweet scent attracting bees and great spangled fritillary butterflies, ripe blueberries hung from the biggest bush in the north garden. I ran for my picking bucket. Sleigh bells jingling against its sides, I eased the ripe berries off the branches. Plink. Plink. Plink. A dozen berries rolled on the bottom of the gallon bucket. The ripening pace should pick up.
It didn’t.
Two days later no berries had ripened and none on the third day. Even odder, there seemed to be fewer green ones. No berries had fallen onto the straw. No gaps allowed birds to fly in. On the sixteenth, a puny, ripe blueberry dangled among even fewer green ones.
Angry, frustrated, and discouraged, I marched to the great room and shoved the picking bucket between Spence and his computer.
He peered into the bucket. “It’s a blueberry.”
“Yes. One. And the green berries are disappearing as if they’re evaporating.” I hugged the bucket to my chest. “Bugs would have left half-chewed bits.”
Spence put his computer on the coffee table and stood to place calming hands on my shoulders. “It’s been dry. Too dry.”
I knew that. Spending hours watering tomatoes, squash, and cucumbers, Spence had run a five hundred gallon cistern dry so hooked up a hose to the second one.
Spence squeezed my shoulders. “May was wet. The bushes set a lot of fruit. They took back the water to survive.” He took a deep breath. “Metaphorically, the blueberries evaporated.”
His calming voice gave me a little comfort. “But where did the skins go?”
He shrugged. “Dropped into the straw.”
Dig through the pine straw where snakes, mice, and voles lurked in search of shriveled green skins? No need. Spence confirmed my evaporating theory. I retired the picking bucket for the season.
Disgruntled over all the work I’d invested for thirteen blueberries, I delayed removing the covers. Honking continued. Dust drifted. Weeks passed. I imagined neighbors wondering why I left the covers up so long. Embarrassed, I talked myself into removing them at the beginning of August.
Then it rained. I had to wait for the cover cloths to dry.
August 10 dawned blue-sky sunny. Washing the breakfast dishes, I gazed out the kitchen window into the north garden. The fat groundhog—that lived under the old woodshed and seemed impervious to the stinky mounds of used litter-repellent our tabby cats created—grazed on white clover. Goldfinches flitted among drying thistles. A good day to go out. “I’ll take down some blueberry covers today,” I called across the great room to Spence sitting on the sofa, his volunteer desk. “Do you have any garden work?”
“In the south garden.” He put a finger on his clipboard and glanced up. “We can go this afternoon.”
Afternoon came, and Spence stared at his computer screen.
Grabbing two binder clips and two plastic grocery bags, I said, “I’m going to the south garden.”
Spence waved. “I’ll be out soon.”
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| Six-Spotted Fishing Spider |
The tall river willow shaded the blueberry cages. Nature provided a comfortable breeze. Using the binder clips, I attached a grocery bag to my left jeans pocket for collecting reusable cable ties and the other bag to my right pocket for binder clips. Looking clownish, I reached for a tie. The tie had a box with a tab on the side. Pressing the tab down while pushing the straight piece backwards through the box released the tie for reuse. I squeezed the little levers and pushed ties again and again. Beetles scurried and moths fluttered across the covers. I released all except one stubborn tie when I spied a few green and pink berries clinging to branches.
In August?
We’d never had blueberries in August. Leaving the cloth dangling, I checked the other bushes. No berries on four. The fifth had some and two were ripe! I picked them, jogged inside, and held my hand under Spence’s nose.
He leaned back. “Huh. We had rain.” He shook his head. “But who heard of blueberries ripening in August?”
Back outside, my index fingers and thumbs ached from pressing the release on cable ties. I bravely swept earwigs, caterpillars, and spiders off the covers. I folded them for next year—if I tried for another crop. With one cover left to remove, the tip of my index finger throbbed. I trudged inside. “Spence, may I cut the stubborn cable ties that won’t come apart?”
“Yes.” He stopped typing. “But I’ll be out soon.”
I took the scissors. After uncovering the last bush, I used every binder clip I'd collected to reattach the first cage’s cloth. Since Spence hadn’t come out to release the stubborn ties, I cut them and put the materials away.
When I joined Spence in the great room, he shut his computer lid and said, “The work just wouldn’t end.”
Ditto for taking care of berries.
Three days later, wild turkeys clucked in the woods. I tangoed with the spruce tree and plucked beetles off the row cloth to uncover the north garden blueberries. A six-spotted fishing spider, the size of a half dollar, nestled between folds by the cage door. She clutched an egg sack bigger than her abdomen. Freeing cable ties around her, I hoped she would move.
She didn’t.
I lifted the cloth to expose her.
She scurried further into the folds.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I took her photo.
Spence walked past and peered over my shoulder. “You’re annoying her.”
I left to finish the other sections. A good choice, I later learned on an internet search, because those spiders bite if people annoy them. And their bites zap like bee or wasp stings.
South garden berries are still ripening a few at a time. I sprinkle one or two on my oatmeal and sigh.
Spence says, “Wait till next year.”
I could argue that climate scientists warn conditions will worsen. Our cisterns won’t have enough water for the garden and blueberries. All the work we put into the harvest isn’t worth the pitiful outcome. I might as well burn the cover cloths and let the birds eat the green berries.
Or I could be hopeful. Perhaps I could cover and water one or two of the most productive bushes and leave the others exposed for the critters to enjoy.
I don’t count blueberries before they ripen. I do expect more than a handful.
Green Blueberries
