Picking Berries

In the part of the country where I live (Pacific Northwest), at the time that I grew up (60's & 70's), if you wanted to earn money for school clothes, or anything for that matter, you had a few options. You could babysit if you were a girl, a boy could have a paper route, and everyone could pick berries. Onions and beans too, but I never did that. But berries I picked, starting every year from the time I was 11 years old- first strawberries, then raspberries and blueberries. My grandfather owned the blueberry farm so that usually lasted til the end of the summer. I hated picking berries. Hated getting up early, hated getting my hands frozen by the early morning dew, hated that my best friend Jeanne always outpicked me by a bunch, and, consequently, made more money, which meant more school clothes. Fortunately we were the same size! And I swore that as soon as I was old enough to get a workers permit, at age 14, that I would never pick another berry. Well the summer I was 14 I had a very sophisticated job selling popcorn in a movie theater, and got to see the blockbuster Jaws on my breaks, and have spent many years at REAL jobs since. But I broke my vow nonetheless. Every summer I pick berries. Yesterday I brought in the second picking of blueberries, and continue to baby my strawberries and raspberries, trying to protect them from weeds and diseases and deer. I love my berries like I love my children, they are like some kind of wonderful gift. Of course I don't go out at 5 in the morning, I get to pick them when I want to. But it is interesting what comforts us as we get older. And watching this generation of kids who DID NOT pick berries, or deliver papers, I think that they missed out. I really do. I think.