The Uncommon Harvest of Blueberry Bushes

Blueberries ripen in the Pacific Northwest in late July and early August. My mother has two blueberry bushes in her yard that produce considerably more blueberries than her household can comfortably consume. It has become an early August tradition for me to spend an hour or so picking blueberries from her bushes. Although I am quite capable of picking by myself, my mother always comes out to pick with me. We spend that hour in comfortable work and talk.

This year, my mother was traveling when the blueberries ripened, so I took my husband instead. As we were picking, I realized I missed my mom. At this time of life, one wonders how many more years I will be able to pick blueberries with her.

In the dark days of this winter, we will rummage through the freezer to find those reminders of late summer sun produced by my mom's blueberry bushes. As much as we will enjoy the berries, perhaps they are not the principal harvest of my berry-picking time.

Above Street Level (And Climbing)

I have long envisioned time as level. We go from birth to death in a single direction on a valley floor, like a drive across the Bonneville Salt Flats. But as I think of it now, time also has a vertical element. As I get older, I gain perspective not only from looking back, but viewing life from the height of time.

At this stage of life, I'm looking from the Stone Shelter at Cape Perpetua. Is Everest in my future?

Weather, Part 1

Our springs in the Pacific Northwest are inexplicably similar to our winters. I admit to being cranky about this sometimes, but even when the weather seems the same, spring lighting causes just enough variation to make familiar places new again.

Advice from the Old Broad (whether you asked for it or not): nature is always changing something, so look around!

Edges

Where sky meets earth, where water meets land, the changing of seasons, habitat edges, beginnings and endings: this is where the action is.

Where Ever I Go, There I Am

The perspective from Powell Butte Nature Park makes me think I know right where I'm going. A mile later I remember how easy it is to get lost here; well, not lost really, but momentarily misplaced. Wandering and backtracking, I manage to walk in excess of 5 miles on a 3.2 mile trail. Back at the car, I'm not disappointed with the hike. I've got no place to go and plenty of time to get there.

Don't Forget.......

Need another reason to get out more?
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Ma and Pa

Last month, this lovely lady was a frequent visitor to the suet feeder. I haven't seen her for awhile, but now, this fellow coyly creeps through the brush before deciding to check out the food.

My husband and I can't go to the grocery store together, either.

So, What Will You Do When You Are 80?

I hope we can all do this.

In Retrospect.........

As an Old Broad, I have a mind full of memories (a privilege I cherish until senility creeps in). Certain recollections cause me to wonder how I wandered off the trail.

That's me on the left, above, in a newspaper photo taken in the early 60's in Camp Lowami. I was a Blue Bird in the Camp Fire Girls. The Campfire Girls program (now the more PC Campfire USA) promotes camping and outdoor activities for youth. There. I had a chance to discover my love of the outdoors at a young age. What happened?

Today, I pondered that question when we took a walk in the Lowami Hart Woods, still a tiny island of nature in Beaverton, Oregon remaining from the days of Camp Lowami at this very location.

Perhaps, just as this nature oasis holds out against the neighborhoods pushing at its edges, a tiny seed of passion remained in my brain holding off the "life" that gnawed its edges.

I just wish it hadn't taken so long to sprout.

The Afternoon of the Day

Being an Old Broad isn't so bad. I can stand in the dark after heating up water and watch the electric burner fade from red glow to black just to see how long it takes. When I catch a spider in the house, I can carry it outside instead of just stomping on it. When the leaves blow, I can run to the middle of the street to see if I can feel the whirlwind. If anyone notices me doing these things, they just excuse it, thinking "crazy old broad."