Picking Blueberries Evokes Childhood Memories

On a pleasant Sunday morning, when the humidity was low and the temperatures reasonable for mid-June, I cranked up our 1965 Ford F100, rolled down the windows, and headed to Greer Farm outside of Daingerfield. I wanted to pick blueberries. I have been looking forward to this for about it for a month, since I ran into Sid Greer at the downtown Farmer’s Market. It felt good to be hurtling down the highway with the breeze whipping through the 2-60 AC, which was working perfectly. (That’s two windows open while driving 60 mph.) I also have a fan clamped to the ash tray, its cord plugged into...

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