Photo courtesy Todd Quakenbush

Today is my husband’s birthday. He’s very like the husband in this poem by Pauletta Hansel (though my father is not much like the father). When we were dating in college, my husband typed up and gave me a poem he felt applied to our relationship. I still have that poem, and it still applies. Wishing you a happy birthday, LJ!

Husbands

My mother likes a man who works. She likes

my husband’s muddy knees, grass stains on the cuffs.

She loved my father, though when weekends came

he’d sleep till nine and would not lift

his eyes up from the page to move the feet

she’d vacuum under. On Saturdays my husband

digs the holes for her new roses,

softening the clay with peat and compost.

He changes bulbs she can no longer reach

and understands the inside of her toaster.

My father’s feet would carry him from chair

to bookshelf, back again till Monday came.

My mother likes to tell my husband

sit down in this chair and put your feet up.

A few minutes from my house, and just down the road from where I keep Tank, there is a blueberry farm that is now open for U-picking. After several weeks of unseasonably hot and humid weather, this weekend was fresh and spring like—the sun shining from a cobalt sky dotted with cottony clouds, so I decided to go blueberry picking for the first time. Here’s what happened:

Acres of blueberry bushes

After I park my car, the farm proprietor ties a white plastic bucket around my waist and tells me which sections were picked for market and which should have berries left. I walk down the grassy road between berry sections and choose my spot. There are other pickers scattered through the rows, a few with children in tow. U-picking with kids is popular, and this is one of the first weekends the farm is open. I see several generations of family members, from grandparents to toddlers, enjoying the experience.

And that’s why I’m here: to enjoy the experience. This is an artist’s date as well as a way to stock my freezer with fresh blueberries.

Once I choose my section, I begin slowly walking between the rows of shoulder- to head-high blueberry bushes. It takes me a few moments for my eyes to adjust to seeing the plump purple berries hidden in the foliage. I drop my first berries in my bucket with a thunk. While I search with my eyes, my ears listen to the sounds around me: the breeze flirting with berry bushes, the lady in the red t-shirt humming along with her iPod, the children calling out excitedly, and even the loud speakers periodically blaring screechy bird sounds to keep away other birds who would eat the berries. My mind is free to wander, but I find it mostly stays quiet, absorbed in the task of looking carefully for the ripe berries. I deliberately pick a few unripe berries to paint because they’re such pretty colors. I also remember and use Laure Ferlita’s advice to look up, look down, look all around.

As in life, in blueberry picking, it pays to go slowly, look carefully, and be gentle (so the fruit doesn’t fall on the ground instead of into your fingers). You need to look at the bushes from several different angles, and sometimes you will find perfect berries missed by others who have worked the same row. This is sort of like the process of creativity—good ideas, ripe for the picking are out there, waiting for the right person to come along.

It takes me about two hours to fill my bucket. I probably could have moved to a section with more berries per bush, but for once I’m not in a hurry. It is a pleasure to be doing one thing and one thing only. Once my bucket is full, I return to the entrance, pay my money, and carry a plastic grocery bag to my car filled with my bounty.

When I get home, I’ll have the work of drying out the berries (they don’t like to be wet), freezing them, and deciding what I want to do with the ones I won’t freeze. Blueberry muffins for my son, and lemon blueberry scones for me, I think.

As promised, here’s a rundown on last week’s Field Trip Friday—Laure Ferlita and I checked out the Fancy Flea Vintage Home & Garden Market.

The Fancy Flea is an “upscale outdoor vintage show” that takes place twice a year at the Strawberry Festival grounds in Plant City, Florida (between Tampa and Orlando). The show featured booths filled with shabby chic items, garden art, plants, antiques, salvage, handmade jewelry and lots of other interesting bits and bobs. There was also music and a food truck rally.

The Fancy Flea booths were all out in a field at the Strawberry Festival grounds, and though there was some shade, we were very grateful for the cloudy skies, since it has been summer hot already, and neither Laure nor I felt 100% that day. But we’d planned this little excursion for weeks, so we were determined to complete it, even if conditions weren’t just right. We were both in need of playtime and creative well filling, so we hauled ourselves out of our comfortably air-conditioned homes. 

Neither of us had explored the Fancy Flea before so it was fun to see what types of vendors and merchandise would be there. Unlike Renninger’s, there were more arty/crafty/repurposed décor items than antiques or true flea market “junk.” It took us a couple of hours to slowly wander the aisles. Our only purchase was some little packets of cancelled stamps to use in future art projects. We both bought some and shared with each other.

This cute metal sculpture

Laure asked me at lunch later if there was anything I regretted not buying. In thinking it over now, I regret not asking the price of a couple of shadow boxes that caught my fancy…at the time I was irritated that the prices weren’t marked, and I decided I didn’t care enough to track down the stall owner and ask. I don’t need anything, and I don’t even really want very much. I’m more concerned with getting stuff out of my house than in bringing more in. So I mostly just enjoyed looking at the bright colors and creativity demonstrated by the people selling there. My favorite things included mini succulent or herb gardens created using baskets and other unusual containers. (I didn’t take photos because I didn’t think the vendors would appreciate it—since I plan to duplicate their efforts with items I already own!)

So even though we came home mostly empty-handed, we enjoyed the chance to drink in the colorful creativity of others, to leave our desks and drawing tables and hopefully, spark some new creativity in ourselves. That’s all I ask of Field Trip Friday.

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

—Kurt Vonnegut

Introduction by Ted Kooser: I don’t think I’ve ever sold anything that, later, I didn’t wish I had back, and I have a list of regrets as long as my arm. So this poem by Melissa Balmain really caught my attention. Balmain lives in New York State, and her most recent book is Walking in on People, from Able Muse Press.

Love Poem

The afternoon we left our first apartment,

we scrubbed it down from ceiling to parquet.

Who knew the place could smell like lemon muffins?

It suddenly seemed nuts to move away.

The morning someone bought our station wagon,

it gleamed with wax and every piston purred.

That car looked like a centerfold in Hot Rod!

Too late, we saw that selling was absurd.

And then there was the freshly tuned piano

we passed along to neighbors with a wince.

We told ourselves we’d find one even better;

instead we’ve missed its timbre ever since.

So if, God help us, we are ever tempted

to ditch our marriage when it’s lost its glow,

let’s give the thing our finest spit and polish—

and, having learned our lesson, not let go.

Today we are having all our carpets cleaned. This means the whole house is torn apart, the animals are disturbed, it’s noisy, and my usual Monday routine has been upended. That’s the bad news.

The good news is: our carpets will look like new and I will feel like I got something major accomplished from my to do list (never mind that I’m not doing the actual cleaning).

I feel untethered—without my usual Monday activities performed in their usual order. Sometimes, untethered is good. Sometimes I narrow my vision too much, and become inflexible. Routines can become so ingrained that I lose all my creativity and joy in the doing.

I don’t want to throw all my routines to the wind, but maybe, just for today, I will. Maybe today I’ll binge read Janice MacLeod-Lik’s blog. Maybe today I’ll write a poem. Maybe today I’ll lounge around and finish reading Rex Stout’s Death of a Doxy. Maybe I won’t do one more blessed thing that could be considered productive.