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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