Choose The Wild One

‘Tis the season for blueberries. A neighbour of mine had a recent trip home to New Brunswick to visit her family and brought me back a large bowl of the wild blue delight, their sweet magic able to cure almost every malady. Wild blueberries seem like more work, more effort required, a bit of hiking and exploring, keeping a look out for The Three Bears on their way to the Teddy Bear’s Picnic where no humans are allowed, but the reward is worth every step.
Blueberry picking was never a chore when we were kids. Coming upon a patch of wild blueberries was like unearthing buried treasure, no map required. When we were “up the lake” we were often embroiled in play of a dystopian nature – running everywhere, hiding from the enemy relentlessly in hot pursuit, gaining ground on us at every turn. Always low on rations, with no safe shelter, we had only our wits to protect us, with the occasional collapse into a heap of laughter. Stumbling upon blueberries was fortuitous, falling onto our knees and devouring every blueberry in sight, before we raced off again. My aunt gave us tin cups with a handle to pick enough berries for that evening’s dessert to served in a bowl with thick cream, or for the next morning’s breakfast, topping for a bowl of cereal.
Blueberries are rich in the antioxidant anthocyanin, credited with helping us with brain health, fighting cancer and heart disease. Wild blueberries contain more antioxidants than their cultivated cousins. I attended a food source symposium years ago and the one fact that I have held on to since then was to “eat wild wherever and whenever possible”. I don’t think that meant wrestling blueberries and bunnies until one or the other yelled uncle, but you know what I mean.
I remember picking the abundant blueberry in Pickle Lake in Northern Ontario. I was able to fill an ice cream pail without moving from one comfortable spot. But, and it was a serious but, the blackflies and mosquitoes were thicker than thick, and every inch of my body had to be covered. I can still hear the buzzing in my brain, despite being in wide open space at the end of the airport’s runway, my sweatshirt hood pulled tight around my face, with just my glasses peering out. First Nations people advised me to embrace a change of diet during pesky bug season, avoiding foods such as bananas, foods high in sugar and salt, choosing instead raw nuts and fresh carrots. They picked the berries in t-shirts, while I was doing my impression of a knight in full armour. Advice heeded and lesson learned.
Blueberries were a sign to us that summer was shrinking, and it wouldn’t be long before summer was in our rear-view mirrors. As children, I’m not sure the passing of time merited much pondering, but at this stage of the game, the age I am currently embroiled in, I can feel a hint of melancholy tip-toeing into the room, washing over me when I think of the long sunny days shrinking away. It has been a splendid summer here in Nova Scotia, a bit too dry, but a lovely summer despite all the serious worldly goings on.
I am willing to bet there is nary a child who grew up in Fort Frances who didn’t boast a blueberry-coloured tongue at one time or another, a proud trophy of having discovered such a tasty treat growing on the ground, free for the picking, a gift provided by Mother Nature herself. As with all gifts, gratitude comes into play, and it is our responsibility to ensure the precious gift is protected. It was the blueberry, after all, that told us to be well-rounded and to soak up the sun. There’s not much better advice than that.
wendistewart@live.ca