Blueberries!

 July is the start of National Blueberry Month, so the publisher/owner of the newspaper I write for in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey asked me to do a feature about a relatively small local blueberry and cranberry farmer who might really appreciate publicity this time of year.   

I was excited for this story given my love for blueberries, which I could eat 365 days a year. Plus, I’ve never written about the farming industry, and whenever I get an assignment that opens my eyes about something new, I’m grateful for that opportunity.

I called the farmer to arrange a time to meet at his farm. He seemed excited that he’d have someone to show around, given that they haven’t had many visitors since COVID. Before that, he said, they had given tours to school children and were open to customers, some of whom did not let the pandemic get in the way of their blueberry cravings.  

We came up with a day for me to visit, and he told me to come around 9ish. He gave me a quick overview of where he was located, but I told him there’s no need to do that; I’ll plug the name of the farm into the GPS.

That morning, I left about 20 minutes early, just so I wouldn’t be late, and this way I could drive around a little, maybe do some blueberry shopping. I blasted my Top Songs for the Car CD and went on my merry way.

I had always enjoyed the ride to Tabernacle because I leave behind the congestion of busy suburban traffic in favor of less traveled roads, open fields, woods and isolation from the rest of the world, all of which I never realized was so close to us before I started working for this newspaper.

Once I arrived at where the GPS instructed me to go and the street name confirmed it, I turned in to what soon felt like a driveway to nowhere. It was hard to picture a school bus filled with children or customers making this trek, even if these blueberries are something special.      

As it happened, this was the wrong road; while the street name was correct, a woman gardening outside told me that to get to the farm, I’d have to re-enter the same street from the other side. She tried to make it seem like no big deal, but for someone like me with no sense of direction and totally inept in the woods, I knew it was easier said than done.

The GPS continued to bring me back to the route I didn’t want, and for the next hour – which included my calling and texting the farmer, getting gas because that extra 45 minutes of driving caused my fuel light to go on and then getting so agitated that I had to get to a bathroom – I still could not figure out how to get to my destination.  

I was feeling somewhat embarrassed that I was going to be so late – if I ever got there – and I wanted to pull over and cry, curse, say Forget It! altogether…but that would be even worse for me personally and professionally if I didn’t show or looked like a wreck when I got there. So, I pulled myself together and continued my journey.   

And guess what?!!?? I finally found the place!

The farmer was super nice about it, and after a tour of the packing plant and a delicious dark chocolate cluster of blueberries he had offered, I was able to put the very harried ride behind me and get to the business at hand.  

While hearing him talk, I was aware that I had never met a man before who expressed such emotion and passion about his life and work. He’s a 6^th generation farmer who talked at length about the importance of family support at home and on the farm, the dedication required every day and every night, the stress that accompanies this kind of lifestyle, the economics of owning a farm and much, much more. What he emphasized most of all, however, is his love for the land and not being able to imagine living anywhere else.

“If I didn’t have these Atlantic white cedar and pine trees and scrub oak around me, I don’t know how I’d act…There are folks who live in the city, and they think nothing different…They love the city…New York City would terrify me. I’ve only been in Philadelphia 3 times in my life…Dump me out here in these pines anywhere and I’m happy as a meadow lark.”

As he spoke, I realized he and I are opposites…dump me in a city anywhere (almost) and I’d feel more comfortable than I did driving around for miles and miles in the Pine Barrens.  

I wonder...what would explain this? Is it just because we grew up differently - he as a “Piney” and me, as a city girl? 

I think familiarity goes a long way toward shaping who we are...and who we become.