By Rhea Bouchard Powers

After picking blueberries four weeks in a row, I think I'm done for this year.

The only thing that will change my mind is if picking is still available when my daughter-in-law Lisa comes up from New York this weekend.

Lisa grew up in New York City. My son Tom says she suffers from "country envy." She loves picking apples with the whole family every fall, picking out her own pumpkin from the pumpkin patch, and buying bunches of Indian corn at the orchard to take home with her when she leaves. She can't wait to hit Wal-Mart (they don't have one in the city) and the local craft stores up here every time she visits. A couple years ago she even asked if I minded if she raked my leaves, her tenuous tone of voice sounding as if she was afraid I might refuse.

This summer our plan was to take her to my favorite U-Pick-Em place for blueberries, but circumstances conspired to keep her away during peak season. We're hoping she can at least get in on the tail end of it, and then convert most of her haul into homemade jam before heading back to the city on Monday. I have the sugar, pectin and jelly jars all ready and waiting for her.

Whatever berries we pick together will all be for her, as I have already reached the blueberry saturation point myself. I have made blueberry pies, blueberry buckle, blueberry muffins, and blueberry cobbler. I have eaten bowls of blueberries with cream and sugar and added blueberries by the handful to my morning Cheerios. I've also filled a dozen jars with blueberry jam and packed the freezer out back with enough berries to see me through until I can pick again next July.

It must be the dregs of long ago pioneer spirit still clinging to my soul that drives me to put by what I can of summer's bounty for the long winter months ahead. All I know is I've been out there picking no matter what. I picked when it was so hot the sweat was running into my eyes. I picked when the weather was glorious and I could have been golfing. I even picked one cool, damp morning when the thermometer had barely cleared the 60-degree mark.

On that particular Saturday morning I had headed out bright and early, in shirtsleeves, wanting to be at the berry patch when they opened for business.

I didn't realize how chilly it was until I was already on my way. Not wanting to waste any time, I didn't bother turning back to find something warmer to wear. I figured it would most likely be warming up soon anyway.

What I failed to take into account, however, was the fact that it had rained all night.

I saw the error of my ways as soon as I headed down the first row to start picking from the high bushes. Everything was dripping wet.

Other people already there were standing clear of the bushes, gingerly picking what they could from the edges of the plants. I tried to do the same, I really did, but not for long. Greed soon co-opted any common sense I may have had. The lure of berries hanging in clusters like grapes drew me in until I found myself deep within the heart of the blueberry bushes, and there I stayed.

Water rained down on me every time I moved to coax the fat berries down into my pail. I could feel it running down my neck and into my shirt, but still I persisted, until my fingers were all pruney and my bucket was full.

The lady at the register couldn't help laughing when she saw me approach, hair plastered to my head and my shirt soaked to the skin. I must have looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, but I didn't care. I was toting about eight pounds of prime, dark blue berries that would soon be transformed into warm and wonderful things to eat.

- Rhea Bouchard Powers is a writer from Cumberland.