The Blueberry Heist

We had been banging on the back door for what seemed like hours. My black hair absorbed the scorching sun and directed it to my pale and very freckled skin. It was no use, we were never going to be allowed back in, no matter how much whining and pleading we did. That was the thing that got us kicked out of the house in the first place. So, we went over to the 200-year-old barn in our backyard, moved the 20-pound cast iron rod that held the doors shut, peered over at the slowly decaying rat under the stairs to make sure it was still there and grabbed our bikes. Time to go bike-riding! More specifically, time to ride our bikes up to Nannie and Papa’s to see what cousin Joey was up to.

In hindsight, I don’t understand why we ever thought it was a punishment to get locked out of our house. That house was always full of chaos and sometimes terror. Our grandparents’ house was full of ice cream and cookies and playmates. It only had chaos sometimes and never terror.

Becca got there first and tried to lock me out. That house had so many doors she couldn’t get to all of them fast enough though. After gorging ourselves on President’s Choice decadent chocolate chip cookies -- this was back when they were considered store brand and inferior, but we knew what was up from the beginning-- we moved on to the ice cream selection. Grapenut and Orange Pineapple. Blech. Nannie had the weirdest taste in ice cream. Ok, NOW was the time for an adventure. Joey was down for bike riding too, so we set off. Up to the pre-fabs and their winding streets. Always slowing down in front of a certain house in case a certain boy was there and saw me looking cute in my summer shorts. Then up on the back roads to double back towards the fitness trail. We rarely took Lawrence street because you had to go by all the Dirt Lumps’ houses and they were scary. There were always dogs or dads that chased you. I’m not sure what was worse.

August in Nova Scotia meant blueberries. Wild blueberries were good and would do in a pinch, but the garden variety was much juicier and bigger. They were one of the very few fruits we didn’t have growing in our massive yard. And so, it was the forbidden fruit.

We happened upon a house that had a huge blueberry patch. Joey, being the true troublemaker and risk-taker, insisted we steal some blueberries. They had so many they wouldn’t miss a few. No one was home, so they wouldn’t even know. I was skeptical. I always followed the rules or at least made sure there was no way I’d get caught. This seemed way too risky. We didn’t know for sure if they were home or not, and from the “Garbage Ben” sign on the freezer at the end of their driveway, the people who lived here were definitely Dirt Lumps. Becca and Joey jumped the fence, they weren’t waiting around for me to make up my mind. I couldn’t be left behind, so I laid down my bike and walked through the gate.

We were right in the middle of our second handful of berries and the owner came running out of his house in his underwear. Joey and Becca dropped everything and sprinted toward the fence and jumped over. I could hear the man screaming and chasing me down. My heart was pumping so hard from adrenaline and fear. Those cute shorts got caught on the fence and I barely made it over before the man got to me. As we were racing away we heard him yell: “You’ll be hearing from me, you little brats! I know who your father is!”. We stopped and smirked at each other and calmly walked away, licking the blueberry juice from our fingers. We knew he was lying.

Joke’s on him, none of us have a father.