There were no berries for us this time but if there had been, it would have been like this.
A key thing about being a regular blogger is sometimes not giving a shit if anyone reads what you write. That’s my number one message tonight.
My second message has to do with blueberries. Specifically, disabusing people of the notion that picking wild blueberries is a glamorous or frivolous endeavor.
In the movies, when glamorous people are picking blueberries, the berries are always plentiful and perfectly ripe. The pickers wear aprons and carry wicker baskets. When they get home, they bake pies with the top crusts carefully woven into designs signifying important ethnic origins like northwestern Danish or ex-urban British.
This is not reality.
Today, my husband and I drove into the School Forest in Grand Marais, Michigan, to pick blueberries. The School Forest is a vast wood with many dirt roads and ski trails and, yes, it’s actually owned by the Grand Marais School. It’s huge and wonderful, also completely…
View original post 386 more words