A gift from the berry patch
They were new parents, far from their families. But one afternoon while picking blueberries, they found a sense of home.
By Christiana Tosattofrom the July 9, 2007 edition
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As new parents living far from relatives, my husband and I once found the warm shelter of family where we least expected it, in a Southern berry patch. It was only for an afternoon, but that afternoon was as brilliant and comforting as a slice of blueberry pie.
Our daughter was born during a blistering June in Alabama, and we soon began introducing her to her amazing new world. While driving outside town, we passed a hand-lettered sign at the roadside, extending a cheerful invitation, "Pick your own blueberries." It felt rude not to.
After our station wagon crunched up the gravel drive, we lifted our daughter out, coaxing her tiny limbs into the openings of her new infant carrier. I slipped my shoulders into the straps so she dangled in front of me, arms and legs limp and sleepy. Her downy puff of dark hair came alive with my every breath.
The proprietors, a husband and wife, came out to greet our new family. Their smiling faces looked comfortably lived in, creased in all the right places, much like a favorite couch. We nearly burst with accomplishment as they admired our daughter. Like all new parents, we beamed as if we had personally devised this miraculous process of creation.
They grabbed buckets and led us through rows of bushes slumping beneath the strain of all those plump berries. The air shimmered with heat, and my husband and I fussed over the baby, shading her eyes and tender skin.
As we settled in to pick, the couple didn't return to their farmhouse as we'd expected. Instead, they added handfuls of berries to our buckets, chatting and laughing with us.
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