"DARRELL AND THE BLUEBERRIES"

Poor Darrell, as he would say, file this under "Stuff you can't make up." And as blueberry season is upon us, it triggers a fun memory

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As a kid my younger brother Darrell was a clumsy little fella, as I posted earlier in the Blog. It wasn't safe to let him out of your sight, Momma must have had eyes in the back of her head. He could scale any wall, you'd often find him sitting on top of the fridge. He was rough and ready, and he had a set of lungs on him like nothing you've ever heard. Case in point, when being toilet trained, and so proud of peeing "all by myself!" he stood there and dropped the seat down too soon........and................. well, you can guess the rest. A hellish lesson for a little boy to learn, and I can hear the blood-curdling screams yet.

He wasn't safe on a bicycle, but he did learn to drive one and loves it to this day. As he got older, and after a couple of broken arms, he turned out to be a great help to Momma. He had more energy than a freight train out of control, the rest of us had to run to keep up with him.

Momma used to send him down to the shore after a wind storm to find some dulse for her. He always knew where to look. She loved chewing on that rubbery stuff, and of course instinctively she knew it was nutritious. Every time I see it on the shore, I think of her. But none of the rest of us ever got a liking for it.

Food was always an issue for poor Momma, and in August, she could always bank on some blueberries to round out the meals, or indeed, with a bit of cream or milk , it might BE the meal.

And who doesn't love wild blueberries by the mitt full, warmed by the sun, right out of the field?

It turns out that up the hill across from our house, about a mile away at the back near the trees, wild blueberries abounded! When the timing was right, Momma would send us with pots to the back field, knowing we'd be gone for hours, and perfectly safe. We'd skirt up past the Black Rafter, stop and look carefully up the road and down. Nothing coming? We'd scurry across the road, and thought nothing of running UP that hill, until it levelled out after that first part. As children, how fit we were!!

She would be counting on us coming home with a decent supply, there was probably three of us picking, and maybe cousin Betty too, as there were tons of beautiful berries up in those back fields.

Was it hot? Oh probably, it would be in summertime.

Did we use sunscreen and carry bottled water? Not a chance, who ever heard of such a thing.

Did we bring a snack? Don't be daft, we could eat our own weight in fresh berries!

Well, the day wore on, and we found a nice patch, and settled down to pick. I would imagine we put two in our mouths and one in the pot, but there was so many!

It's funny the things you'll remember. And the things you'll forget.

It was hard hot work to get those old pots filled, and being little kids, Momma have to sort those berries, we were too young to be particular pickers. Everything went in the pot, leaves, bugs and all.

None of the containers had lids, they were just old pots, no handles either, we just carried them. I'm sure grasshoppers were just dancing in those open pots! That was before the days of nice clean Tupperware with matching snap on lids, or even yougurt dishes, cleaned and with lids, oh no, that would have been too easy.

Soon enough, we turned back. By this time we were starving in good style. And we prayed that Momma had made a pan of biscuits!

The field then, as now, was big, wide open and hilly, a lot of up and down. As we crested the last hill, the roof of the old Black Rafter came into view, and we knew our journey was almost over. We were faint with relief. We made a bee line for the Hall driveway and safety on the other side of the road.

I'd like to say it ended well, with a nice plate of warm biscuits waiting to go with a delicious dish of fresh berries for supper.

I'd like to say that, but what I remember is this:

Just as we descended the hill about half way down, Mr. Darrell let out one roar and started to bawl. I'm sure Rand Jenkins could have heard him in Little Pond.

I don't remember if he was attacked by wasps or killer bees or zombies or if he simply just tripped over his Clydesdale-like feet, but as I turned around his pot of berries went arse over kettle, him with it, berries flying through the air everywhere and we had very little indeed to show for a day of picking blueberries in the heat.

I'm sure Momma would have expected little else, and no doubt she felt it was necessary to go with us the next time. We probably saved enough berries to make a few muffins. What did we know, we just did what we were told, and probably Momma had just wanted a couple of hours to herself, to smoke and do a crossword puzzle. Who could blame her, I'm sure we were a handful.

Those were the days.

Happy Birthday, bro