Friday morning two friends and I made our way to Eckart's Blueberry Farm in Dora, Missouri. After a string of hot, dry days here, the TV weatherman said the jet stream was bringing in a batch of cool air straight from Oregon, and he was right. Under overcast skies, we were layered up; I wore a jacket over two shirts--unthinkable a couple of days ago.
The farm is a bit like an ocean, with those rows of blue, like the waves, stretching into the distance, and that day, I could almost smell the salt air.
The heat had ripened the berries early this year, and the farm had opened for picking on May 18th, the earliest ever. While I was following other pursuits and waiting for the perfect weather, some industrious pickers were harvesting the first fat ripe fruits, and when we got there, the bushes were no longer as heavily laden with berries. But were they delicious! Every possible bit of sweetness was concentrated in those tasty morsels. We picked to the music of mockingbirds and bobwhite quail and cardinals, all plump and satisfied from their berry breakfast, and when our buckets were full, we headed home.
We took another way back, and along the road,
an old barn and home place stood, abandoned to the weeds...
...and an old church, abandoned to chicory and dock.
As I stepped into the weeds,
hundreds of young grasshoppers scattered in every direction.
The morning had been rich with beauty and friendship, laughter and conversation;
our buckets were full,
