A few days ago, I saw a real, live blueberry farmer. I met him last year, too. Old and wrinkled–maybe 85 years old–with a straw hat and a wise expression, this man has lived out his days on his expansive blueberry farm. He wears a brown work shirt, jeans, and sturdy boots.
I can’t stop thinking about him. I want to know everything. What’s it like to live on a blueberry farm? How did it all begin? Do you ever get sick of blueberries, or do you still eat them by the handfull? Did you fall in love and convince some very stylish and urban woman to settle down with you and raise blueberries along with children? Do these children race up and down the rows of blueberry plants and rest underneath the shade of those huge trees that border the field?
Do you eat blueberry pancakes, blueberry jam, and blueberry muffins? What about the pies and the cobblers and the ice cream?
I watch the lazy sprinklers arch up and shower the acres and acres of blueberries. I see no machines picking blueberries, so I begin to wonder who picks these berries and how.
I want the whole story. I want the mystery and the conflict. I want the love and the loss. I want to know what this blueberry farmer prays for and what he dreams about.
I won’t be able to let it go until something comes of it.
I’ll keep you posted.
What’s brewing for you in your writing life? Any good ideas coming?