I thought it time to reintroduce my recently repatriated college daughter to the fun of pick your own blueberries. To me, it’s a time of quiet reflection while fingers sift for the perfect, plump berry. The reward? Fresh air, a sun-kissed glow on the skin, the promise of cobbler, and maybe a bug bite or two. Assigned our row of bushes, I like to plunge deep in brush where many fear treading. It’s where the best berries are among the sound insulation of thick leaves. Then I hear it, making their way down the patch. Gossipers.

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