This past weekend, we visited with my parents in the greater, downtown, metropolitan-area of Jefferson, GA.  As we pulled into the driveway, first things I saw were the blueberry bushes.  When I was a young lad, I would occasionally be tasked with plucking these small fruits the bushes.  A task that I loathed.  I could spend weeks on end picking berries only to find that I was still on the first bush and only filled up a thimble.  And to be honest, I didn’t even like the things all that much.  My wife and girls could sit down and eat them like candy.  I’d much more prefer to get a hold of a beef jerky tree.

This past weekend, the bushes were bursting forth with ripe berries.  (Well, there were some not-yet-ripe ones on there, too, but that doesn’t sound as poetic, so we’ll just ignore that fact.)  On Thursday, after we finished supper, my mom took the girls outside to pick some berries.  Butterfly thoroughly enjoyed herself.  She reached for every ripe berry she could find, even climbing into the bush for some that we couldn’t/wouldn’t reach.  Ladybug preferred to simply hold/squish a few in her hands as she toddled around the yard.

The scene was perfect.  My mom, wife, and two daughters were enjoying themselves finding these little treasures and placing them into the baskets.  After some contemplation, I decided that I was simply an ignorant youth many years ago.  I started picking blueberries to make the family participation complete.  What was once a burden would soon become a source of joy.

About 45 seconds later, I decided that I was really brilliant in my younger years and that picking blueberries is a tedious, unending, pointless venture that I would only wish on those who I despise the most.  Oh, the torture was unbearable.  I quickly claimed that Ladybug was tired and needed to play inside before bedtime, scooped her up, and removed her from the viciousness that was going on in the name of “harvesting”.

The only redeeming quality of the blueberry picking experience is blueberry cobbler.  (Of course, my mom had a fresh cobbler baking when we arrived.)  I’ve decided that we do not need a blueberry bush at our house.  What we need is a bybrid plant that combines a wheat stalk, sugar cane, and blueberries.  That’s right, it’s a blueberry cobbler bush.  You’d wait until the hottest day of the summer and let the sun “bake” the cobbler to a nice golden brown, and then eat it right off the bush.  Once I figure out how to combine that with an ice cream plant, I’ll stop working and just live off the land.