A Season of Blueberries, by Steven Pointer

When our sons were young, we moved to a twenty-eight acre farm in north Idaho. Lisa and I had been married eighteen years and Miles, Bannock, and Gavin were between seven and thirteen years old—perfect ages for growing up on a farm. The parcel—planted in alfalfa hay—separated Highway 53 to the south from a hilly forest of pine trees on the north. A year after we moved there, we plowed up four of the alfalfa acres and planted 4500 blueberry bushes. Much could be written about our research and labor to establish Red Canoe Farms, a blueberry patch and summer U-Pick business, but what follows is a description of a typical season. Even though summer picking is only seven weeks in July and August, for us the season really starts in February.

Copyright 2015

February

I unlatch the gate, chained for the last four months, and step into the field. As typical, winter has played havoc with the farm like Dr. Seuss’s cat in the hat before Mother comes home. Bushes stand like skeletons on a bleak brown floor. Random fragments of snow litter the edge of rows where December flurries packed flakes into the lee side; blackened leaves lie in forgotten clusters around plant bases. Vole runs careen down grassy aisles; sections of drip tube have been chewed apart by gophers. 

Warmer breezes and bright, oven-like days are just a few calendar pages away, and this field will rise like the mythical phoenix into a vibrant wash of green. For now, the bushes are still dozing in dormancy, doubtless dreaming of summer as I am. Time to clean this place up.

The plants will awaken before I’m finished pruning, a marathon task that will take several weeks. I’m dressed for working outside—insulated coveralls, stocking cap, knee pads and gloves, pruning shears tucked in my back pocket. I trained for a marathon once, incidentally instilling the requisite discipline for haircutting these beautiful bushes. 4500 of them wait in line, so I need to approach the task with marathon-mentality: methodical and steady-paced.

The bushes are bare, with only a few meaningless leaves—once summer green, then fall yellow, now dirt-brown carbon—still stuck to the cane. Winter-inured canes sport a dark ruddy coating that seems to insulate them from cold and snow. No leaves, hardened canes: this is dormancy, a physiological rest state when blueberries have ceased to grow. Dormancy reconditions the plants for another season of fruit bearing, much as a decent night’s sleep recharges us before we carry on the next day. 

I start pruning the first row of the field, an early season variety called Duke. One approach to pruning is to look for what’s bad and remove it. To clarify—there’s nothing “bad” about the bush; “bad” simply frames a practical way of thinking about details of the bush that will not meaningfully contribute to this season’s harvest, and in fact, might handicap the bush. For example, this bush boasts an abundance of new growth. But one of the new canes has grown low and sideways to the row. I don’t want people tripping over it; nor do I want fruit on the ground. I snip it off.

A branch on the further side of the bush angles sharply to the ground, splintered from its central cane. Perhaps the wind jostled it wrong, leveraging it harshly. Maybe a customer accidentally twisted a fruit cluster and the branch snapped. It’s hard to pin down the back story of mechanical damage; it just happens in blueberry bush life. In any case, I remove that branch also. 

Some growth has advanced up and swerved into the middle of the plant. In a few months, leaves from these branches will block sunlight from reaching the plant’s interior. These have to go. 

Some branches and sprigs I cut off are “new wood”: last summer’s growth. It’s the newest life, now poised to jockey for light with the more mature bush. Most new wood branches out favorably, but some new growth is like an embezzler siphoning profits from a company, not contributing anything to the plant, but eating up nutrients all the same, like this cane whipping sideways and low or that one slanting smack through the middle of the bush. 

Fruit buds only develop from new wood. So, as I prune, I’m also removing many of these buds. Every clip and snip subtracts July’s harvest. If I don’t remove about half of the buds, though, the plant might suffer an awful chain reaction. Since plant energy goes into fruit production first, the plant would route the bulk of its energy into these numerous buds that never got removed. The bush would overbear, producing small and bland berries. This would not leave much energy for leaf production. Since leaves harness sunlight needed for growth, a lack of leaves would result in poor growth; and a lack of new wood might diminish hopes for fruit the following year. So, I cut away at the “bad” guys leaving jumbles of branches in the row aisle. 

My dad drives out one morning. He has been interested in the farm from square one, designing field layout, planting bushes, installing irrigation systems, running the fruit stand, picking and pruning. He pulls up to the house just as Lisa calls me in for fresh coffee and chocolate chip cookies. So, we play a quick game of cards, eat three cookies and head back to the field. Dad picks the west side of a row and I take the east. As we prune, we chat about friends and where we read in the Bible that morning. After two hours, he says, “Well, I’ve put in a full day, so I think I’ll head home.” That’s his famous phrase. Two hours of manual labor counts for a full day for him, and that works for me since I enjoy being with him.

Each bush looks fresh and trim when we finish. Canes are sturdy, and every lateral wears a mix of fruit and leaf buds. The plant will awaken strong.

March

I’ve pruned about two thousand bushes in the last few weeks, finishing Dukes, Patriots, Spartans and Drapers, and moving into Bluegolds. If pruning was an actual marathon, I’d be about mile twelve, solidly into the rhythm. Spending only two minutes per bush—over the entire orchard—equates to 150 hours of pruning. I don’t want to spend forever crawling around on my knees or hunched over loppers, so I attack each bush with confident cuts guided primarily by instinct now, and scramble to the next one to avoid the pruning season dragging out indefinitely. And that’s important, because I’m starting to lose steam. 

Before our oldest son, Gavin, left for college, he took charge of Bluegolds. Pruning them is a mountain of work, but they flat out require a brutal thinning, and Gavin was the man for the mission. Even when the bushes were still small, mounds of pruning clippings would pile high in the row when he was finished.

Twisting inside the bush, weaving through older canes, some new growth in Bluegolds flares into a haywire profusion like a Fourth of July sparkler in ultra-slow motion. There’s so much “bad” growth it’s tricky to make sense of the plant, and it takes too much time to sort out what needs to go. So, I start hunting for what’s good instead, and scope out three beautiful cane systems—high-reaching and hardy. I visually trace these canes down to the root crown. What I see now are these particular three canes surrounded by thin contorted canes and short, curlicue growth. I shear all these other canes and extraneous growth with quick slices. 

Beautiful canes stretch straight for blue sky. They’re thicker at the base than other canes. They’re unblemished from bacterial infections. They branch every six to eight inches with successive levels of new wood. You can discern each year’s growth like counting floors of a multi-story building, as in this bush here. The base resembles a small tree layered in rough bark. That’s about four years old. Where the bark smoothes out marks three-year-old wood. Up from here is this smooth, barkless portion without enough age and exposure to develop woody bark; you guessed it—two years old. And these upper branches with buds on them shot up just last summer.

Focusing on the “good” guys instead of the bad guys now permits me to keep up with this task. The “good” guys—the canes that remain after pruning—are the systems that will support and yield an outstanding harvest this year. 

Miles, our youngest son, helps out now as well. When he started pruning Dukes last spring, I neglected to keep tabs on him until he was halfway through with one row. The bushes were cleaned to three or four canes sticking into the air. I worried he might have over-pruned, but those plants hit it big in the summer—gobs of new growth and huge, plentiful berries. Blueberries crave severe pruning, and Miles layers on a calculated handiwork.

I hire Anthony, a friend, to help prune. I assign him Liberties—lanky, intimidating bushes to prune, with several newer canes and ratty clusters of twigs from last year. A weak job of pruning last year created an undisciplined stampede of growth. But Anthony runs a landscaping business and knows how to corral rogue branches.

Finally, after two months of pruning we finish the final row. Plunging into pruning back in February felt great, but much better crossing the finish line. I’m tired. My back is sore but stronger. The backs of my knees chafe from kneepad straps. My fingers suffer small cuts from pruning shears; occasionally in my brisk cutting I would pull back my hand too slowly. I remember feeling this way after my one marathon—exhausted but elated. I deserve a bowl of blueberries.

April

The impact of heat and light is awesome. Four consecutive days of temperatures in the high forties rouses bushes from their torpor. Nutrients nudge upward into the plant. Each root mass’s size defines its capacity for allocating water and minerals up the plant. I think of this potency as “x amount of juice” that will rise from the root this year. Pruning has reduced the total length of available “pipes”—canes, stems and twigs—juice can go through. The hydraulics of this means fewer pipes equal more juice per pipe, resulting in stronger growth and better tasting fruit.

Infant buds that formed before winter slowly swell. They materialize at the junction where last year’s leaves connected to the cane. In a miracle of differentiation, some of these tiny buds will evolve into leaves and stems and the rest will emerge as fruit. Fruit buds will develop first, since they require less dormancy hours than leaf buds. That’s why the field will look pink long before it looks green.

Wet spring weather generates prime conditions for bacteria and fungi to infect the plant, especially through pruning wounds. We spray an organic fungicide on the bushes to prevent disease. The fungicide creates a hostile environment for bacteria, creating a timely opportunity for pruning cuts to heal. At the same time, we add a powdered boron to the spray mix. Fruit buds clamor for boron, but the soil in our region of Idaho is deficient in this nutrient. Boron feeds the tips of leaves, buds and canes to keep them pushing up and filling out.

Every August we zigzag through the field collecting a hundred newly formed leaves and mail them to Holm Research Center at the University of Idaho. This lab analyzes the sample and reports every significant element in either percentages or parts per million. I scan the reported volumes of sulphur, phosphorus, potassium, manganese and other elements. Nitrogen needs to be right at two percent. But last August’s sample was 1.7%—too low. So, we start fertilizing now. In addition to organic fish fertilizer, we apply ammonium sulphate. This compound boosts nitrogen rates and lowers pH levels. 

Blueberry plants crave low-pH (acidic) soil because they need iron, and although most soils are abundant in iron, the chemistry of neutral pH soils makes it difficult for the blueberry to draw iron from the dirt. Low pH soils, on the other hand, make it easy for roots to access iron, like a debit card makes it easy to access funds in your checking account. Occasionally a customer will ask for advice: “My bushes have yellow leaves. What can I do?” Blueberries show this sign of distress for various reasons, but usually from too low a pH and therefore lack iron. I suggest the customer purchase an iron-chelate product at a plant store and spray it on the leaves.

We apply fertilizer through drip irrigation. As water rushes into the head of the irrigation system, a venturi tube draws liquid concentrate from a container and mixes it with the incoming water. The fertilized water is distributed through several laterals of drip tube. Each tube distributes water to meticulously engineered orifices, each releasing 0.3 gallons of water per hour. That might sound like a meager rate, but these orifices are placed every eighteen inches with two drip lines running down each row, drinking up fifty gallons a minute. That’s only half the field, the most I can manage at once with our water pressure. The drip system places water and fertilizer straight into the root zone. Nothing is wasted. 

May

You can’t see it, underground as it is, but the root mass is much the same as a warehouse from which goods truck up the roadways of canes and branches to supply photosynthesis factories called leaves. The root mass continues to ship nutrients and water up to the plant all summer long, the sun powering the entire operation. Leaves convert carbon dioxide and water into sugars using energy from light wavelengths. Sugar radiates through every corner of the plant, used to further leaf formation and bud development and to sweeten fruit production. It’s what makes blueberries taste so great.

You may have glanced over the field periodically to detect the red canes and deadened terrain of winter glide to the green insistence of summer, like watching for that moment your teenager turns into an adult, but the changes are so subtle they’re easy to miss. Dormancy: it’s over, and summer’s so close you can taste it. This is like the part of your day when you step out of the shower, eat breakfast and down two cups of coffee. You check your planner, read the news and grab your car keys. The sun is up and the world waits. This is what it’s like for blueberries in May.

Buds swell to a point and then unravel tight red flowers. As the days go by, these flowers gently swell, turn pink, and ultimately assume a white bell shape. 4500 blooming bushes create a rich, heady aroma.  Walking in the field feels like swimming through smell. It’s like breathing in a wedding bouquet or the floral section at Safeway, or like hiking across that high mountain meadow on the west side of Mt. Baldy. Bees enjoy it too, buzzing from pollen cluster to flower, with their own U-Pick instinct.

Customers also sense the coming of summer. A few of our regulars have already left phone messages wondering when we might open. Three years ago, we opened on July 12. Last year we opened on June 29. The difference is attributable to weather patterns. We expect a July 12 open date in Idaho; it would be earlier in Western Oregon and Washington. Warmer temperatures early in the spring seem to accelerate bud development; hence, earlier blueberries. 

We take stock of our supplies: bags, buckets, wasp traps…. We order packaging containers for the “We-Pick” orders, purchase new feather flags for out by the road, and clean the “Red Canoe Farms” signs my dad painted. We reserve a “porta-potty” from American Onsite. Since we also sell homemade soap and pot-holders at the fruit stand, Lisa and her friend Meg make soap and my mom quilts more pot-holders.

This year we need to increase our advertising. Data from last year’s sales showed that two-thirds of our income was from the front half of the season. Our response will be to increase advertising starting about two weeks into the picking to keep sales strong in the back half. We draft ads for The Inlander, the Coeur d’Alene Press and Spokesman Review. We plan for ads on Facebook too.

Five weeks to go.

June

Excitement mounts as the field greens up, grass rows progressing into vivid strips perpendicular to Highway 53. In fact, grass is the first thing that stands out as you drive past the field. Look, Summer is Here! grass seems to say. My brother, Dave, drives over with his brush mower for the first cut of the year. When he’s done the grass aisles look like a manicured lawn. We take evening walks through the rows. 

Blueberry bushes turn color slowly. Light green leaves peep at their new world in a gentle awe of life. Blueberries arrive looking like clusters of green peas or miniature green grapes. As June forges on they will ripen to the blue and purple of opening day.

Weeds, too, begin to arrive for their annual reunion. They’re all uninvited of course, but they horn in anyway. Coincidentally, they are indeed members of the same family: sunflowers. Included in this botanical taxonomy, and arriving at the farm steadily now, are the Canadian thistle, common groundsel, dandelion and prickly lettuce. Two other sunflower members, knapweed and skeleton weed, remain in the base of the hilly forest surrounding the field in scrubby pockets around pine trees, as if they were the black sheep of the tribe. Distant cousins, shepherds purse, from the mustard family, and bindweed from the morning-glory family, tag along as well. 

We don’t completely eradicate weeds because it’s practically impossible. Instead, we persistently manage their population since they steal soil nutrients intended for blueberries. One way to let weeds know they’re not welcome is to smother them with mulch. Asplundh Tree Expert Company delivers truckloads of pine and fir chips when they’re working in the area, clearing branches from power lines. They chip limbs with a heavy-duty grinder that hurls the material into the back of their truck, and when it’s full, the crew dumps the chips at our farm. We load chips into a small trailer pulled with a tractor and shovel four to five inches of mulch on the row. This effectively blocks light for weeds growing close to the ground. Their cells can’t live without sugars produced by photosynthesis and they eventually die. This thick, organic ground cover not only eliminates most of our undesirable guests, but also keeps moisture in the ground by slowing evaporation, so in hot summer months the root system stays cool and damp.

Some weed visitors are extra stubborn, so we hire kids to root them out. Occasionally, customers ask us about chemical use and our post-emergent weed program. I point out Miles and his friend Luke. “See those kids? They are our weed control program.” Many customers compliment the cleanness of the field—the grass rows, the mulch, the weed free appearance—but I think they also like to see a few weeds here and there. This isn’t perfection; we’re doing our best on a real farm. 

In this manner, we manage our uninvited weed families; we don’t lose sleep over not having booted them all off the farm. It wasn’t always that way. The first summer after we planted, weeds overran the field. Our entire family—as well as hired help—pulled them all by hand and hauled them to the dump. They scaled in at 5300 pounds. So, we don’t lose sleep now, but we do watch diligently and pull a few weeds daily. The sunflowers and their relatives are always planning a get-together.

We swath first-cutting hay off the east field, and convert it into a parking lot. We bring buckets down to the field, clean up the fruit stand and wait for the right moment to advertise our opening day.

July

We open on July 3, a Saturday just prior to Independence Day. Being open for the Fourth of July always means lots of customers. Families look for something local to do with visiting relatives and our berries add blue to raspberry and ice-cream desserts—a patriotic delight. We’re out in the field early, getting the scale set up, buckets put out, turning the “Closed” sign to “Open.” We open at 8:00 but cars pull in by 7:45. 

Our first customers every year are the same two ladies. “Good morning!” I say. “Good to see you again.” The younger one always brings the same red bucket and the older one the same pink knee pad to sit on. 

“We need to get those Dukes before they’re all gone,” the younger one says. “Do you know I ran out of berries by February? Need to get more this year.” They head into the field.

“Ooh! Look at these berries!” the older one exclaims, adjusting her knee pad. “They’re huge!”

We are quickly greeting customers, handing out smiles and buckets and liners.

“Are you selling that pink grapefruit soap this year?” I remember this man. His wife bought six bars last summer and came back twice for more.

The first hours of the days are similar to this, with people—many from previous seasons—driving through the hay field, parking by the fence and walking to the stand.

Miles interrupts. “Hey, where are people supposed to park?” I look up. The parking lot is so full people are slowly driving around looking for a spot. I race out there and direct traffic to a different section of the field. I see Bannock—our middle son— running up to the house for more buckets. He comes back empty handed: we’re out. We hand people liners.

“Sorry,” Lisa says. “We’re out of buckets right now.” She smiles and people seem happy to have a liner.

The morning bursts with the colors of a Monet. Rays of sunlight thrust into the field. Tight clumps of dark blue, almost purple berries contrast earthen browns and summer greens. Human figures at harvest time—some bending to reach low fruit, some drinking from water containers—pepper linear rows of profuse green impressionism. A child runs with bucket swaying; a woman lifts the corner of a yellow blanket admiring a friend’s newborn; a white-haired man sits in a chair, arm extended into a bush. 

Pickers bring buckets to weigh out. We lift the liner bag from the bucket and place it on the scale. Over the summer, perhaps fourteen thousand pounds of berries will cross this fruit stand counter.

People want to know what kind of blueberries taste best and to know our favorite varieties. I say Dukes—large, smooth, mild and sweet—win for fresh eating, bowls on the kitchen table and handfuls at a time. But Lisa directs people to Patriots and Spartans, her favorites. “They’re the sweetest,” she says. “And people like them the best.”

On average, people pick about five pounds of berries. Some people will pick seventy to eighty pounds of fruit and hope to have enough for the winter. Others will pick four pounds and wonder if they’ll ever be able to eat them all. 

One annual customer requests fifty pounds “We-Pick” for her family’s annual reunion in Montana. Another has a baking business providing muffins to convenience stores. Several people are trying to fill their freezer. A retired engineer has just moved here from California and visits every week. Another man drives up in his old red truck with squeaky springs to buy five pounds of berries every Monday. 

Many families return from last year, their children getting older and bigger and sometimes more numerous. Perhaps the dad is slightly heavier and the mom’s crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes are just visible this year, but the kids seem to have gained energy and coordination. The boy’s once shapeless arms show definition and his youthful confidence looks cocky sometimes. The girl who used to stand back while her parents chatted at the fruit stand is now counting out bills. Each generation explores new territory.

Some kids pick well, quickly filling buckets with ripe berries and without leaves or stems. Lisa invites them to pick for us. We pay $1.25 per pound, and good pickers can make twelve to twenty-five dollars an hour. They possess a picker’s personality—focused enough to stay with a bush until all the ripe berries are harvested; precise enough to quickly pinch off the stems; talented enough to rapidly roll fingers through a multicolored cluster to tease off the ripe ones and leave the rest for another day. Kids who love the thought of earning $20 an hour, but don’t have this particular dexterity and commitment rarely last an hour. They wander down the row of berries, which seem elusive; and these pickers get frustrated when hardly any berries find their way into the bucket. These youngsters, however, tend to be good weeders. They are clear on their task, and can make a significant and noticeable difference in a short time.

Tourists arrive in a rental car. They have just flown in from southern California—first time out of state. 

“Do you pick year-around?” they ask. 

“No,” I say. 

“Why not?” they counter. “You could make more money if you were open all year.” I explain about seasons and temperature and snow. They finally get it, I think.

An old white Ford Taurus bounces into the parking lot area. I can hear the steady pulse of bass emitting from speakers. It’s Ada, an older lady who grew up in Germany. She opens the door before killing the ignition and the oompa-oompa of polka dominates the parking lot. So does cigarette smoke. Ada is a chain smoker and I can see smoke drift away from her vehicle as if the entire car was a cigarette. I watch her leave her oxygen bottle in the car and lock the door.

“Hi, Ada,” I say. “Nice to see you again.”

“I can’t believe you Americans,” she wheezes. Ada has taken a turn for the worse since last year. “Allowing that Hillary woman to run for office. That woman is horrible. And Trump, Trump….” She starts to spit and curse.

“Can I get you a bucket, Ada?” Ada does not need a bucket. She has two pink bedpans she will use for buckets, then pour berries into a plastic sack she will tie closed with a shoelace.

About twenty customers freckle the field, mostly moms and their kids. The sun is high and warm, not real hot, but a person would want a water bottle and sunscreen out there. By the time Ada is done picking Bluegolds and Bluecrops it’s noon and she is sweating wearily. “Those crazy people,” she exclaims. “They don’t know how to pick. They just pick a few berries here and there. When I was in Germany we picked all the time. I was the best picker.” She pauses to grab a breath. “You have to spend some time with each bush and pick it clean. Americans don’t know how to do this.”

She pays for the berries and turns to leave. Then she realizes she has dropped her keys somewhere out in the field. 

“Oh!” she cries. “How could I be so stupid?” She heads back to the area she remembers. I walk back with her. We can’t find her keys. She gets desperate, and I’m getting worried about her condition. The oxygen tank is in her car. Her car is locked. She tells me she has no family in the area that can come for her. The only person she knows who can get her is her landlord. I call his number. He isn’t home. I begin asking customers to look for keys as they pick. Finally, Ada heads to the fruit stand and its shade to sit and rest. We give her water and a place to sit down and just wait for her keys to appear. I resume the search. It’s 1:00—closing time and getting hot—and the second-to-last customer brings in Ada’s keys.

“I found the keys,” the woman says. “I just looked down as I was walking back and there they were.”

Ada exclaims, “Oh, God bless you, God bless you!” Her eyes roll back and she slumps sideways. I call 911. Our final customer brings in her berries and tells us she’s a nurse. By this time, I have retrieved the oxygen bottle and the nurse adjusts it. The Hauser Fire Department arrives ten minutes later with an ambulance and fire truck. The firetruck parks on the driveway, lights flashing, and I know everyone on Highway 53 is wondering what is happening. Ada leaves in the ambulance and we take her berries up to the house.

The next day she’s back—as good as ever, relatively speaking. “I worried all night about my blueberries. I paid for them already, but I didn’t know if I would ever see them again.” She gets into her car; the music blares up and she drives away.

August

Another customer pulls up. It’s Thomas; he comes a dozen or so times a year. Hmm, I wonder, he’s without his wife. “Hi, Thomas. How has your year been?”

He explains it’s been a painful year. Tresa has had multiple surgeries, is now slowly moving with the aid of a walker. “She really wants to come out here, but I don’t know how that would happen.”

“You can drive right up to the row you want,” I say. “We’ll find a bush with lots of berries and she can sit there and enjoy the day.”

August is a season of sunglasses, tee shirts, shorts and Birkenstocks; hundreds of hellos, recommendations of where to pick the best blueberries today, checks written and signed, change given. Dukes, Patriots, Spartans and Drapers are mostly picked out. We direct customers down the field to Bluecrops, Bluegolds and Chandlers—mid-season varieties—and Liberties, late season berries. Some customers have waited all season for these berries. In fact, I myself have waited five years for Bluecrops. We planted three rows of them in 2010 and prior to this season they have never born fruit. I’m thinking that in those first years I pruned them too aggressively. Early Bluecrop growth consisted mostly of laterals—shoots that grow sideways rather than upwards; this, at the time I was wanting plants to grow taller, and definitely not bushy. So, I would grasp the top of a cane with one hand and quickly slide my other hand down the cane stripping off all laterals. Bluecrops did eventually achieve some altitude, but hardly accrued any fruit. When I was pruning this year, I determined not to waste much time on this nonproductive variety. I cranked up the music in my earbuds, used big loppers instead of smaller shears, ripped out older canes and slashed away at any vegetation that looked like it was a waste of time. I finished in record time, happy that I had basically done the job. But Bluecrops responded, exploding with berries. Now, fruit clusters bend canes low to the ground. Perhaps making up for lost time, each bush has produced about five pounds of berries. 

Bluegolds are my least favorite variety. I’m walking through their rows on a Thursday evening since that’s when we’re open late. I’m thinking about the first time I tasted Bluegolds—they tasted like weeds: unripe, wild, foreign. To be honest, I don’t remember ever having eaten a weed, so how would I know, right? The next time I sampled them my taste buds were a little more sophisticated: Bluegolds tasted like oregano. This was a couple years ago. Shortly after that one of our friends who had picked Bluegolds that day made a blueberry meat baste. I put chicken on the grill and smoothed this purple concoction all over it. And, yes, it had tasted like blueberry-oregano flavoring.

I’m in the third row of Bluegolds checking for leaks in the drip system when I spy two large berries in the center of a bush. They have obviously been overlooked by pickers as there are no other berries on the bush and Bluegold season is virtually over.

I reach in and pick them. They are cool and full. The smooth skin ruptures against the roof of my mouth. Flavor streams around my tongue. It is as if the berries have been growing slowly and quietly in the shady protection of the leaf canopy until the sugar content has peaked, the berry absorbing all the sugar leaves have produced since bud break in May. They taste like a choice memory or a favorite song, or of reading poetry lying in the hammock. More than anything, though, they taste like our efforts to grow blueberries—the labor, research, planting, investment—have been worth it.

Thomas drives in one morning with Tresa. They motor into the field down to the Liberties. I find one particular bush loaded with berries and bring a chair. Tresa sits with a smile on her face and enjoys the morning sun, her hands gently pulling ripe blueberries from their fragile stems. 

Fall

By the end of August, we say a final goodbye to our customers, post a “thank you for your business” message on Facebook and the website, as we have few berries left, and the picking gets thin.

We’re relieved to see the U-Pick season close. Seven weeks grooves a mental tired into your body. We struggle to maintain a private, quiet and predictable home as well as a public and unpredictable business on our property. The privacy of home and the public of business frequently collide. Like when we’re trying to catch up on sleep and the Asplundh, American Onsite, or beekeeper trucks rumbles past the house. Like when someone drives to the house and asks if we’re open, even when the sign in the middle of the driveway says we’re closed; or asks if these plants are potatoes or mint; or if the bushes need a low pH or not; or, “I’ve been thinking of planting blueberries”; or, “I planted blueberries and they’re not doing well”; or, “I planted blueberries and they’re doing great and I think yours have a problem.” It strains home life. 

We wipe out the buckets and bring fruit stand items up to the garage. Essentially, the only thing to do now is watch for weeds and irrigate, although I decide to trellis the Liberties and Bluecrops. Their canes are too thin for the fruit weight they bear. I purchase trellis wire and crossbars from an orchard supply center in Pasco and pound in a few tee posts. The rest of the project will have to wait until next spring.

A few hoses need rolled up and Dad’s hand-painted row marker signs need removed from the fence. The hand wash station sign goes under the counter with the hoses and garbage can. The signs all come to the garage. Lisa collects bee traps scattered around the fence line. By this time of the summer, we’re more concerned about getting third-cutting hay up than anything else. Cooler weather narrows harvest windows. We can cut when the forecast looks dry for a week or so, but these sunny stretches start becoming rare.

Blueberries will continue to grow through September and into October. With cooler weather of mid-October, the blueberry bush slows its processes. Leaves turn dark green and by late October Duke’s leaves are orange. 

We host a dinner at the house for all the kids who worked on the farm. It’s good to see everyone together and to appreciate all the labor that’s gone into the season: filling orders, pulling weeds, helping install the new drip system, helping at the fruit stand, mowing the grass, pruning. We tally totals for the year: 13,300 pounds picked.

By early November, all the leaves have colored. I can look at the field from the living room windows and easily detect each variety. Dukes were orange, now mottled yellow and red. Patriots are vibrant red. Spartans are a deep purple, whereas Drapers are a dusty maroon. Bluecrops are yellow-red and Bluegolds are purple like the Spartans. Chandlers are red-orange and Liberty leaves are half orange, half purple.

From this point, plant growth will continue to slow until the first frost of the year triggers something in the plant which ushers in deep sleep. Canes lose their green color. Tips of some younger shoots—not hardened yet—have “candy-caned” with the first frost, curling over in death. Most canes, though, take on a brown-red hue, as plant juices recede into roots. Leaves drop, their usefulness completed, adding a mosaic of mulch to the row bed. 

One Saturday I rent an air compressor to blow out irrigation lines. The weather forecast calls for more chilly temps: snow will come soon. With the lines blown out, the field is put away for the year. I walk out of the field and start to close the gate, but then stop. I have been walking in and out of this gate for the past eight months, and am now leaving it for a quiet winter. I enjoy the sense of accomplishment and finality that comes with wrapping up another season, but to be honest, I miss the field already. 

I turn back and approach a Duke bush, as if to say goodbye or goodnight. One leaf remains. In the notch where the leaf stem has been all summer is a tiny bud—the hope of another harvest in another year. I turn away, close the latch and walk up to the house.