(Host) Educator, writer and commentator Mary McCallum is usually a
gardener who is happy to reap the bounty of summer. But this growing
season she learned that there is often a flip side to the harvest.
(McCallum)
Twenty-six years ago I planted a half dozen blueberry bushes at the old
farmhouse I shared with my partner. When we decided to split six years
later, I declared that if I go, the blueberries go. I waited until late
fall and showed up at his dooryard one cold afternoon with a shovel. The
gardening literature had advised me that it was possible to
successfully transplant established blueberry bushes by waiting until
they had gone dormant after a frost.
I carefully dug around each
rootball with my spade to sever the roots and prevent early growth in
spring. Then I bade them goodbye for the winter and drove off. Come
spring, it was a snap to lift them out of the ground and haul them in
the back of my rusty car to their new home. With a happy nod to the
future, I bought six more bushes to add to them, and hoped for the best.
You must be careful what you wish for because you just might
get it. This summer saw the latest in a string of bumper crops that had
my now towering bushes bending beneath the weight of thousands of
berries. Recent studies point to the protective benefits of antioxidants
contained in these tiny powerhouses, and everyone over fifty is
gobbling them to stave off memory decline. It’s like I have a private
pharmaceutical company right in my own backyard with 24-hour access to
the antioxidants and polyphenols that will keep my neural pathways
firing for years to come. Even my dog has gotten into the act as she
follows behind me taking dainty nibbles of low hanging fruit.
But
I have to admit that I’ve lately developed a love-hate relationship
with my blueberries and occasionally refer to them as t hose pesky blue
orbs . I cannot pick them fast enough. My freezer is fully packed. The
jam jars have nearly run out. My dog appears to be turning a pale shade
of blue. Perhaps this is some kind of karma coming home to roost as
payback for my greed in yanking those early bushes away from their first
home.
Recently, I stood in a light morning drizzle and picked
what I hoped would be my last haul. Then I stood over a pot of bubbling
dark purple jam and poured it like hot satin into waiting containers.
Muffins were baked and slathered with soft butter. Two pie shells
awaited their filling. Then I said with conviction, "Let the birds have
at it," and went outside to peel back the netting that protected the
bushes from birds who had been eyeing them from the treetops.
As
if on cue, a small brown sparrow flitted from beneath the tomato plants
and landed on the highest berry bush. And if I needed further proof
that I had done the right thing, as the last large expanse of black
plastic netting lifted off, an exhausted dragonfly trapped there for
days flew free and arced away.