N. Hampshire: Monadnock Berry Farm

On a Monday morning while the rest of the world readied themselves for the start of their work week, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and packed a bag to take a short road trip with a group of strangers to the edge of New Hampshire to pick fresh berries in the July sun.

As Ana pulled us into traffic, forced air conditioning and conversation trailed in and out, connecting a thread between ourselves and foraging or lack thereof. Our first stop, a dusty gas station about 30 minutes outside of our destination, where we took turns squatting over a cracked toilet and buying a drink for the road. Before getting back in the car, we stretched our bodies and waved in the heat like the tall weeds before us.

I took the last swig of peach mango energy drink as we pulled into the pebbly parking lot. Blue skies and wispy clouds carried us through the shop front. We hooked our buckets to our belts and covered our heads, overlooking the rows of berries.

I planned on hanging close to the more seasoned berry pickers, but as I went out into the fields, I was compelled to find my own way.

The fields were still except for the distant chatter of strangers pulling berries from vines too far away for me to see. The whisper of the rustling insects and my slow steps carried me through the blueberry fields. I gently released them from the vine and let them roll off the tips of my fingers. From each bushel branch, I plucked and tasted sweet tart bursts. I walked further through the rows of leaves and hanging red, clear, black, and blueberries staining my fingers and tongue and lining the inside of my bucket.

For the first time, I tasted the crispy tartness of the white currants and the funky savor of the black. I rolled a bulk of harvest with gratitude for the bush, the grass, the soil, the sun, and myself for indulging my curiosity.

In our planning, we decided to bring lunch, and unbeknownst to us, there were picnic tables available for hungry pickers. We laid out our lunch, which turned out to be a feast. We nibbled and noshed and periodically talked about the apropos and nothing.

After packing up and surveying the land one last time, I looked over the goats, the rolling green grass, rows of berry bushes, the interaction and integration of people and nature, blue skies, the white clouds, the hazy mountains as the backdrop, and considered the bees.

I could be a bee, buzzing around, drinking up the nectar and overseeing the Monadnocks and those rolling green grasses, and maybe the sticky milkweed I sniffed and rolled between my fingers in the minivan back home.