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Sunday, July 28, 2019

Picking Berries with a Two-Year-Old





            In all honesty, as of the writing of this, Ellen will only be two for four more days.  So much change happens in the first years of life, and there is a great difference in the maturity of a two-year-old the last week before she turns three and the first week after she turned two.  None the less, going anywhere with a toddler adds something to the whole experience, and so it was with berry picking.
            Unalakleet is a cornucopia of tundra fruit.  In the first weeks of July this year, there were salmon berries everywhere.  It was nothing, even with a two-year-old not-so-stealthily sneaking her hand into the berry bucket, to pick a couple of quarts in forty-five minutes.  Salmon berries grow amongst the tussocks of the tundra which makes picking them feel a lot like a step aerobics class the day after.  It is no wonder that reindeer fly because a life lived walking in that kind of environment would lead an individual to look for easier ways of getting around.
            Our two-year-old figured out another way that was for her just as convenient as flying.
            “Dad, my ankles are getting really tired.”     
            “That happens when you walk on the tundra,” came my sympathetic reply. 
            Okay, maybe sympathy is not my strong suit.
            “I want to hoooold you, Dad,” the accent placed on the o and held for dramatic effect.
            So, it became step aerobics with weights. 
            Thankfully, blue berries, another of the abundant varieties in Unalakleet,  grow up out of the tussocks with one of our favorite places being on a hill with a pleasant bug deterring breeze.  Blueberry picking with a two-year-old looks a lot like getting her out of the car, explaining what she can and cannot eat, and then keeping track of her while she grazes.  If done correctly, she eats enough where she doesn’t need to eat dinner, but not to the point where she has eaten herself into digestive discomfort.  There is a fine line there.
            That was my goal this morning at least.  If done right, I wouldn’t have to feed her lunch.  However, the only way I could get her into the car was with the allure of going up to the bridge where she would be able to play with her sand castle toys on the sandbar.
            “Hey, since we are already near the berry patch, how about a little snack?” was my next con. 
            “Sure.”
            Out came the berry bucket, I lifted Ellen out of the car and directly into a patch of grape sized berries.  She should be busy for a while.
            Which she was, but being business minded (have to say I’m kind of proud) she figured she would cut out the middle man.  Wouldn’t it be so much better to avoid removing the berry from the plant and just follow dad around eating out of his bucket?  And so started my version of the shell game in which the berry bucket never stopped moving, always just out of reach of my scrambling kid while I continued to fill it.
            I lifted Ellen up and away from my bucket and plopped her down into another patch, giving up some of my prime big berry picking in order to continue picking some other smaller berries a couple steps away.  I have discovered that I have to be careful to assure that her patch looks more attractive than mine or she will come walk through my patch, smashing berries like a toddler Godzilla, as she attempts to pick and eat as many of the berries I was picking before I can get them into the bucket.  This is generally accompanied by her giggling in such a way as that I can’t get mad at her.
            She ate her way through my prime picking spot while I continued working on filling my bucket.
            “Dad, I want to go play with my sandcastle toys,” came her request.
            Shoot, she had remembered, and why wouldn’t she? I had tried to use the same trick my dad used on me when I was a kid.  He always promised to take me swimming after my bucket was full.  That was Michigan, in the middle of the woods, hot humid July berry picking, and his bribe was an incentive to get me to pick and fill my bucket faster.  The result was always the same though: a sweaty, whining kid who wanted to jump in the lake and made no connection between the blueberry desserts and pancakes at the end of the long arduous process.
            “Dad, I want to go play with my sandcastle toys,” was repeated.
            “Well, I guess now is a good time to switch gears.  Go ahead and start heading to the car,” and I bought myself another couple of minutes with my next step taking me back to prime grape-sized berries.
            Berries continued to plunk into the bucket as Ellen climbed into the car.  I was dreaming of blueberry delight, blueberry pancakes, blueberry muffins, blueberry ice cream…
            “Daaad,” again with an emphasis on the vowel, “I’m ready to switch gears and go play with my sandbox toys.”
            She’s two.
These were some of the biggest blueberries I had seen.  This was the kind of picking that filled a bucket effortlessly and would be enjoyed during the cold months of winter.
“Daaaaaad,” was repeated and reminded me of my sister’s voice.
My sisters is 45-years-old and still traumatized by the mere mention of a berry bucket or even the idea of stepping foot in the woods any time of year.
We changed gears and headed toward the bridge where she could play with her sandbox toys.  I mean, who really was I to complain?  My fishing rod was in the car and silvers are in the river.
After a couple of hours of her building castles and dipping her feet in the river, and me catching a thousand humpies and losing three silvers she was ready to switch gears again.  We washed sand from feet and hands and I deposited her in the car while I went back for the rest of the gear.  My rod was still there, a silver was ten feet from the bank and just hanging in the current, Ellen wasn’t complaining and so I cast a few more times…  Ellen wasn’t complaining.  I packed up my Rod and headed for the car where I found her in the very back with the berry bucket just putting the lid back on.
“I only ate four,” she smiled as she held up four fingers. 
And so, that is what it is like berry picking with a two-year-old.


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