We have a few blueberry bushes. I planted the first ones the summer our daughter finished eighth grade. They have limped along, either being eaten by deer or shaded out—first by a white pine tree and then crowded by over eager forsythia. This week each morning when I take the dog out for her first spin I pick a handful of berries. Luna sniffs around the base of the bush in hopes I might have dropped some. I didn’t think I liked big high bush blueberries, but I love the moments of harvesting. I relish taking a photograph of them in a new small bowl or plate. It’s my personal blueberry holiday, a celebration of the mundane morning walk amidst the early days of June in Virginia.
