Gold Barn
Article voiceover
They grow blueberries at the Gold Barn. Caravan of happy fools, we Pilgrimage to pick them. A summer ritual. I never noticed the other grandmothers, The wind-worn mothers or laden fathers. I thought these berries a hidden treasure, Furtively shared, Given from the depths of a wise old woman To me and her prized pupils. We walk her sandy fields And peer, hopefully, behind heavy branches. We seek the motherlode, The unseen bush, Branch swinging low with plump blue orbs Whose patina bespeaks sweetness. Who knew a finger could taste? Roll her between them. Roll her on the open palm, And marvel at the smallness of delight. White buckets cinched to waists by knotted cords, The pickers reveal themselves. A boy casts and reels— Thrill of a first time fishing. Meanwhile by artful tug, innumerable sub-tug, Five fingers sing forth blue living waters Pouring, pelting the bucket. Hardly a drop spilt. You might miss a man who plys his row: Squatting, kneeling, bowing low. What abundance meets our roving eyes! Pea-green, purple, full and blue. You will never grasp the same blueberry bush twice. When the berries burst with juice, if no one comes, The bugs have their way. To devour. To gnaw. Half-eaten, exposed innards Rot in the noonday sun. Indolent hornets sample and suck Like pinstriped bachelors at a breakfast buffet. Here's one too good not to eat. Or three—we lost count long ago. We change postures, cyclically, Checking the depths of our buckets As tired limbs and thoughts of pie drive us home. In the shabby barn of flaky white planks We weigh the final haul. Above the register, three gray photographs— Young farmhand, dapper cadet, And a wrinkled smile like trusty rope.