Successes and failures with fruit, therapy

Over the past week Mama has been able to pick a couple dozen blueberries from the bushes in a bed I have behind the house. The same bed I moved the blackberries from. The frustrating part of the ripening blueberries is that they come in very small batches right now. Mama will pick six or so very plump blueberries about every other day. Of the three bushes, only one is ripening right now. I think when the other two bushes, which are also loaded with berries, start to ripen, we will have our fill of blueberries. Having the bushes in the bed in the backyard definitely helps us get first pick of the fruit. The blackberries are also ripening but the deer and birds are getting to them before me and Mama. This fall, I will dig up all those plants and put them in large pots so we can place them in the backyard as well. Plus, potting them will keep them from spreading out into areas of the garden where I do not want them.

I may have to replant the fruit trees as well. We had six or eight nectarines on the dwarf tree I have next to the blackberries in the garden, but all of were been stripped from the tree before we could harvest them. Mama was very disappointed by that. On the bright side, the peach tree is still loaded. The peaches will be small, but we will get to let them ripen since that tree is inside the backyard fence. Out of the reach of deer and raccoons. One of the two pear trees in the garden is loaded to the point that the branches are drooping low enough the ripening fruit will be easily accessible to any interested deer. But there should be plenty left for Mama. Mama wants to harvest what she can of the pears, but the grainy, hard pears are not my favorite. I think Mama wants to make pear butter with the fruit should we be able to gather enough of it. Last year the tree was completely stripped of its fruit the night before we planned to harvest the pears. Mama was very upset. I am hoping to avoid a repeat of that catastrophe this year.

Also producing this year for the first time is my grape vine. I bought it so long ago that I do not remember what type of grapes it will produce. It was one of three I planted and nursed since we lived on the farm in Bowie. This vine is probably a Concord Grape vine. But for the last four years it has showed little signs of vitality. I was going to pull it up last winter but did not get around to it. Waiting on it for six years now has tested my patience. But I think of the story Jesus told of the fig tree that the owner wanted to pull up because it had not produced any figs. “Why cumbereth it the ground?” He asked the gardener. To which the gardener suggested they let it go one more year while he fertilized it and gave it some special care. (God is so patient as He waits on us to bear fruit.) Maybe my lack of follow through, my procrastination, with the vine paid off.  It has ten big clusters of grapes progressing well for now. I will have to cover the vine as the grapes ripen or it too will be stripped clean by the birds and raccoons the night the fruit ripens. Fortunately, it too is in the back yard. But just barely. It is trailing along the back fence: accessible to visitors from the empty acreage all around us.

I was telling Mama the other day that I need a break. I would love to take her somewhere for a weekend just to get away. That is not going to happen. Finances are very tight right now. But as I was musing over several ideas, a class popped up in Andalusia, AL later this month. The best airport to fly into to make that class is Pensacola, FL. Unfortunately, Mama will not be able to make the trip with me, but the time away from the office and a couple hours by the ocean might help me. Andalusia is about two hours north of Pensacola so I will have to coordinate my visits to the beach carefully, but I will be close enough that it would be a shame not to stop by and see if there are any shells to take home to Mama.

When I was younger, growing up in Houston, I would drive to Galveston and sit on the beach just to smell the salt air and hear the pulse of the earth as the waves rolled in. Rhythmic. Orderly. Predictable. Soothing. It was my therapy. My mom and dad never mentioned the wasted gas of those evening trips to the Gulf. Mama shares that love with me.

We need a break but it looks like only I will get a shot of beach therapy this month.