Picking Blueberries with Papa

by Lauraine Lombara

            Every summer, around August, when the blueberries ripen in the Boston area, my Papa and I would set out for Concord to spend the day at a spot on a hillside Papa had discovered. The blueberries, mostly of the high bush variety, would be crowning the elevation with bursts of blue.  This day trip would entail a Friday afternoon session of planning as we would leave early on a Saturday morning.  Papa worked religiously Monday through Friday, early morning to mid afternoon at his job as a sous chef at a Boston restaurant.

            From the cellar, I brought out the large metal picnic basket, yellow and brown lattice patterned; washed, aired and lined it with waxed paper. Large paper cups on a string to hang around our necks, and cups to drink our lemonade and water from bottles which would be filled in the morning, went into the tin. We made fresh sandwiches in the A.M., usually salami, mortadella or ham, cheese, lettuce and a few tomatoes, layered on crusty Italian bread. A few  of my mother’s homemade biscotti and some fruit constituted our picnic lunch which always tasted better after a morning in the woods, climbing the hills and picking blueberries.

            Our early jaunt began with a walk to the Andrew Square MTA station, a train ride on the Red line to Harvard Square, and from there, a bus ride to Concord.  I am not positive, but I believe Papa’s favorite spot was somewhere along Route 2.  I do know it was Concord as he would inform me each year about wonderful Concord grapes.  Luckily for us, the day he chose was always rain-free, save for a few occasional sun showers, but we were never drenched.  We would arrive about one and a half hours later if we had made rapid connections.  Time went by quickly as we had fun traveling together; talking and admiring the scenery once we were on the bus.

            Papa would signal the driver to stop and we would get off the bus, looking like peasants in our long pants, long-sleeved shirts, hats to shield the sun and sweaters tied around our waists in case it turned chilly. Papa would check out the area and pronounce the spot perfect.  Now we were set to spend about two hours or so, leisurely filling the extra bag I had carried.  After we finished our delicious lunch and had a little rest, we assiduously gleaned the hillside for a few more hours, gently pouring cups of the dark, sweet blues into the now empty picnic tin, filling it to the top. Tired, but satisfied with our tin and bag filled, we headed home.

            I believe my parents and their forebears and now my brothers and I are genetically programmed to forage.  In Italy, it was and still is done for berries, mushrooms, nuts, olives and fruits of trees-all growing wild or on property of family and friends.  We have a few blueberry bushes in New Hampshire on our property there and my family and I relish the annual harvest of our meager supply -nothing to compare with the Concord treasure chest.  As I pick, I am brought back to those idyllic summer treks, spending preteen father- daughter time alone with my Papa in pleasurable companionship, away from my two older brothers!  When I travel to Concord now to visit my daughter Suzanne and family who reside there, I scan the road side, trying to determine where Papa’s spot was. Finding it or not, I know he would be so happy that Suzanne lives in Concord and when I go there, I revisit this place and the loving memories of him it evokes.