When I think back on those long and seemingly endless summer days of my growing up years, I think about blueberries. Blueberries were Dad’s favorite fruit and we ate them throughout the year in one way or another. Family and friends would pile into the car several times a week to go picking in the woods, and it was fun, or so they told me. I would begrudgingly pick a cup or two, for which I would be paid anywhere from ten cents to a quarter, depending on the size of the cup, then head on over to the car to read about the latest adventures of Cherry Ames, Student Nurse. My father, who for some reason did not believe in paying money for the good grades on my report card, thought that bribing me would make a berry picker out of me. Unfortunately, it didn’t work, but that, along with digging money out of the car seats while everyone else was picking berries, gave me money to buy Pixie Stix or wax lips at Kozy Korner. Dad, who loved berry picking plus had the lucky but unfortunately non-genetic advantage of being immune to mosquito bites, would go to the woods every day. Because of that, we ate like kings: Blueberry pie, blueberry muffins, blueberry coffee cake plus pints of the little jewels that Mom canned into sauce, which she would thicken and pour over pancakes on cold winter mornings. From the first of July until sometime in August, there was always a large plastic bucket of blueberries in the refrigerator, right next to a wide-mouthed gallon glass jar of milk. In those days, we would get our milk fresh from the Juntunen farm. The content you are trying to access is only available to members. Sorry.