A diamond kind of day

It rained last night, and the trees are sparkling as I turn into our friends’ driveway. I take note of the warning sign: “Beware of playing cocker spaniel,” and sure enough, here she comes, bouncing toward the green area in the middle of the turn-around. “Buttercup!” calls her boss, and the little dog turns in mid-bounce.

I’ve come responding to an invitation to pick the overflowing bounty of summer in the countryside. There have been few changes along the road here, in blessedly bucolic contrast to the never-ending leveling of building sites in the city.

Years ago our friends planted blueberries beside their house, and most years invite us to come take the surplus. I do my best – that’s what friends are for, after all. This is my second picking for 2008; the freezer is full of the first. And for all that, I know others have picked before me, and birds have helped themselves to the berries in the heart of the eight-foot bushes.

I thrust my arms in to my shoulders and dislodge diamonds left by the rain, and I shiver with chill and delight. A brown thrasher scolds me, demanding decorum with his familiar raspy call.

I’m using a plastic tumbler with a well-placed string allowing it to hang around my neck for two-fisted picking. From time to time I pop a berry into my mouth; they alternate between tart and oh-so-sweet.

The garden décor is whatever the family picks up at art shows, like the horse grazing in the front yard. He won’t wander far – he’s made of strips of rusty metal – but he left the gate open, the one that leads through the arbor to the blueberries and herb garden.

I walk out back to the grandchildren’s playhouse, and stop to admire the looming trees that define the yard. Massive oaks shrug with the breeze, scattering more gems and sending a small flock of flycatchers into the sky. Between the tree trunks, crepe myrtles and bushes of lantana signal quarrelsome hummingbirds. I see at least five swooping around the lantanas, typical of a bird that never wants to share.

The vegetable garden, now nearly played out, drowses in the sun beside the grandchildren’s playhouse. Not much left since I picked green beans and tomatoes two weeks ago. Except – tomatoes. Three or four huge vines, starting with the Roma, larger than eggs, solid and heavy. Another is full of cherry tomatoes still hanging in grape-like clusters, and Better Boys, mostly green and small, only a few left.

As I fill a bucket, I hear the happy voices of young girls and look around until I spot a riding lesson going on in the paddock in front of the stable, on real horses. The girls’ laughter sounds like diamonds if diamonds could laugh.

Birdsong spangles the warming day, comfortable, although humid. It will be hot later. My feet and sandals are damp from the rain and covered with leaf litter, and my treasures will not take the rising temperatures in the car, so I delay a trip to the food store and take the road back home.

Dave admires my pickings, but begs off coming to the store with me. It feels strange to go without him. I know people will ask about him since we usually shop together. They always do, even when he is just in a different aisle.

Shopping is not my favorite thing to do, and rising prices don’t help. Does anyone think we shoppers are fooled by yellow signs blaring “2 for $6” on an item that was $2.99 last week?

As predicted, friends and employees ask about Dave, and I am cheered by their caring. A young boy, who I presume is an employee, comes out of nowhere and helps me empty my grocery cart onto the conveyor. Dave does that so dependably that I seldom pay attention. This time, trying to help, I get in the poor kid’s way and nearly smash him with the cart.

I offer similar assistance to the woman bagging my groceries. We bring our own cloth bags and I feel obliged to explain to her how to load them. She knows how so much better than I do, yet remains cheerful and patient.

By now the diamonds have twinkled out and I just want to get out of there. Suddenly my buggy is snatched out of my grasp, and I turn to look, and it’s the tall fellow who wears a red shirt and a white paper cap in the meat department, humming and praising the Lord. “Mrs. David,” he calls me. “You look like you could use a hand today,” and insists on walking out to put my groceries in the car.

So I look that decrepit, I think, ungratefully. People used to tell me I look younger than my years. No more. And thus dwelling on my ego, clear to the parking lot, I can’t find the car; Dave does that. I can’t even tell him what kind it is. “Dark green” is all I can manage.

I’m frantic to get my perishables home and embarrassed to admit I can’t find my car.

We finally do, and put the groceries in the trunk. I open my wallet to tip my benefactor – spilling change in the process. We’re almost head-to-head picking up coins, and I can feel my cheeks flushing.

“Please,” I say.

“No,” he counters. “I can’t take money from you. You’re my sister.”

With a blessing, he pushes the buggy back to the store, still humming, and a small gust of air looses diamonds all about me.