I have this very fond memory from my childhood of picking blueberries. One summer, I was invited to my friend's grandparent's house in Monticello, NY a few times to spend the weekend. On Saturday mornings, we went out in their backyard and picked wild blueberries for pancakes. I can almost taste those pancakes. The blueberries were so tiny and sweet, I had never tasted anything like it before.
I often think about that summer. Of riding in the bed of her grandpa's old rusty pick up holding onto a canoe and getting pelted with pebbles from the gravel road we traveled to the lake. We made up a game that it was hillbillies in the woods shooting at us as we drove by. We swam in that murky lake until we were water logged and the skin of our finger tips was wrinkled like a prune. We'd fall asleep in sleeping bags on the covered porch to the sound of the crickets, cicadas and owls.
Sadly, this friend and I grew apart as some childhood friends do. Our freshman year of high school, our grandmother's both passed on the same day. We came together for a short period during that time of grief and I shared with her my fond memory of her gran's blueberry pancakes.