THE BLUEBERRY BANDIT - Ella Curtis
Once there were two little bunnies who wanted to pick the perfect blueberries. Once they picked all the blueberries they needed, they washed them at their house and set them outside to dry. When they came back to check on their blueberries, they were gone! They thought to themselves, “who would do such a thing”?
One of the little bunnies had a detective kit. They decided to use the kit. They searched for clues. Later, they found a strand of hair that was the colour of salt and pepper, a blueberry, and a footprint.
They put all the evidence together and started researching about animals that have salt and pepper coloured hair. The only forest animals that have salt and pepper coloured hair would be a possum, a mouse, or themselves.
They knew that they didn’t do it, so it was either the possum family or the mouse family. The blueberry that they found had a fingerprint on it. They couldn’t tell if it was a possum fingerprint, or a mouse fingerprint. Their last clue that they had was a footprint. It was a mouse print! They just found their culprit!
When they got to their house, they knocked on the mouse family door. It was a small door that had beautiful blue flowers decorating their house. Once the mouse family answered the door, they saw the smallest mouse with blue blueberries all over his face. They asked if he did it, and he said he “was really sorry, and he didn’t know it was their blueberries”.
He also said “is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” The little bunnies were going to pick some more of their perfect blueberries, so they said “do you want to come and pick some blueberries with us?”. The little mouse agreed. When they got back, they had handfuls of blueberries that could last them the whole winter.
After that, the mouse and the bunny family found out that they were neighbours, so they shared all their food with each other for the whole winter, and did that for each year that passed.
Our Secret - Brianna North
Grandpa always knew the best spot to pick blueberries.
It was our little secret. If we walked down the trail to camp, combed through the trees to our left, and then took a sharp right turn, there it was in all its glory. The blueberries tasted fresher when they came from our spot. That’s what Grandpa always said.
The second we’d roll up to camp every summer, I’d unbuckle my seatbelt and shout, “Grandpa, let’s go berry picking!”
He’d always chuckle as he put the car in park. “Hold on sweetheart. Let us get settled first.”
“How long will it take?”
“Hmm. Let’s say half an hour.”
It was a reasonable timeframe, and we always stuck to it. We’d spend the whole afternoon in the simmering heat, plucking the berries from the branches and returning to camp with our bowls full. Sometimes, we’d make it a competition to see who could pick the most blueberries in twenty minutes. I usually won.
“You only won because I’m old and slow,” Grandpa would say, and I’d laugh. “If I was thirty years younger, I’d have you beat.”
“Nah. I’ll always win.”
As the years passed and we grew older, I began to appreciate our alone time together. Grandpa started to get sick more often, and the summer I was seventeen, he didn’t think he’d have the energy to go camping. But Mom and I insisted. “It’s tradition!” I said.
“I know it’s hard, but you won’t regret coming with us,” said Mom.
Grandpa sat up in his chair. “Fine. I guess I’ll come. But this will probably be my last camping trip.”
Mom and I gasped in unison. “Don’t say that!” I cried.
“I know it’s hard for you to hear, but my sickness won’t get better.”
I shrugged it off, and two weeks later, we were in the car bound for camp. The dirt road seemed to last forever as we kicked up great clouds of dust. Grandpa was napping in the passenger seat when we arrived, and I shook him awake. “So, what do you say we go blueberry picking?”
He grunted. “Right now?”
“Yes. We always go blueberry picking as soon as we get here.”
He sighed. “Okay. But we’ll have to be quick.”
The trail to our secret blueberry picking spot was a lot shorter than I remembered it being. We arrived in five minutes, buckets in hand, ready to take on the challenge of finding the tastiest blueberries. We were silent for a few moments as we focused on the task at hand, staining our fingers a dark purple. “Sweetheart, what I said earlier was true,” Grandpa said suddenly, his voice strained.
I paused, furrowing my brow. “What are you talking about?”
“My illness. It really won’t get better. I don’t have much time left. Even the simple action of picking blueberries is painful.”
My eyes watered. “But the doctors can take care of you. You don’t have to live in pain.”
“I wish it was that easy. But this is really my last camping trip. I’m too far gone.”
He reached down to the bushes and winced. A surge of sympathy coursed through me, and I bent down to help him. “Here. I’ll help you fill your bowl, and then we can head back to camp.”
We spent the next twenty minutes picking blueberries, and I filled Grandpa’s bowl with the biggest blueberries I could find. A part of me understood the truth in his words, but at the same time I didn’t want to believe they were real. I needed to soak in the moment while I was in it, because it was probably the last time we’d ever pick blueberries together.
When our bowls were full and the blazing summer sun became overwhelming, we decided to leave. We walked hand-in-hand down the narrow trail, and I reminded myself to take my time, to match Grandpa’s slowing pace. I held back a river of tears when the trail ended, and our favourite spot was out of sight. Grandpa turned to face me, and he patted me on the back. “Thank you,” he said.
“Thank you for what?”
“For making this day enjoyable. I’m really glad I decided to come to camp this weekend.”
I smiled. “Any time, Grandpa.”
Grandpa had been right. When the weekend was over and we returned home, he drew his final breath in his favourite living room recliner.
Grandpa always knew the best spot to pick blueberries.
It was our little secret. If we walked down the trail to camp, combed through the trees to our left, and then took a sharp right turn, there it was in all its glory. The blueberries tasted fresher when they came from our spot. That’s what Grandpa always said.
The second we’d roll up to camp every summer, I’d unbuckle my seatbelt and shout, “Grandpa, let’s go berry picking!”
He’d always chuckle as he put the car in park. “Hold on sweetheart. Let us get settled first.”
“How long will it take?”
“Hmm. Let’s say half an hour.”
It was a reasonable timeframe, and we always stuck to it. We’d spend the whole afternoon in the simmering heat, plucking the berries from the branches and returning to camp with our bowls full. Sometimes, we’d make it a competition to see who could pick the most blueberries in twenty minutes. I usually won.
“You only won because I’m old and slow,” Grandpa would say, and I’d laugh. “If I was thirty years younger, I’d have you beat.”
“Nah. I’ll always win.”
As the years passed and we grew older, I began to appreciate our alone time together. Grandpa started to get sick more often, and the summer I was seventeen, he didn’t think he’d have the energy to go camping. But Mom and I insisted. “It’s tradition!” I said.
“I know it’s hard, but you won’t regret coming with us,” said Mom.
Grandpa sat up in his chair. “Fine. I guess I’ll come. But this will probably be my last camping trip.”
Mom and I gasped in unison. “Don’t say that!” I cried.
“I know it’s hard for you to hear, but my sickness won’t get better.”
I shrugged it off, and two weeks later, we were in the car bound for camp. The dirt road seemed to last forever as we kicked up great clouds of dust. Grandpa was napping in the passenger seat when we arrived, and I shook him awake. “So, what do you say we go blueberry picking?”
He grunted. “Right now?”
“Yes. We always go blueberry picking as soon as we get here.”
He sighed. “Okay. But we’ll have to be quick.”
The trail to our secret blueberry picking spot was a lot shorter than I remembered it being. We arrived in five minutes, buckets in hand, ready to take on the challenge of finding the tastiest blueberries. We were silent for a few moments as we focused on the task at hand, staining our fingers a dark purple. “Sweetheart, what I said earlier was true,” Grandpa said suddenly, his voice strained.
I paused, furrowing my brow. “What are you talking about?”
“My illness. It really won’t get better. I don’t have much time left. Even the simple action of picking blueberries is painful.”
My eyes watered. “But the doctors can take care of you. You don’t have to live in pain.”
“I wish it was that easy. But this is really my last camping trip. I’m too far gone.”
He reached down to the bushes and winced. A surge of sympathy coursed through me, and I bent down to help him. “Here. I’ll help you fill your bowl, and then we can head back to camp.”
We spent the next twenty minutes picking blueberries, and I filled Grandpa’s bowl with the biggest blueberries I could find. A part of me understood the truth in his words, but at the same time I didn’t want to believe they were real. I needed to soak in the moment while I was in it, because it was probably the last time we’d ever pick blueberries together.
When our bowls were full and the blazing summer sun became overwhelming, we decided to leave. We walked hand-in-hand down the narrow trail, and I reminded myself to take my time, to match Grandpa’s slowing pace. I held back a river of tears when the trail ended, and our favourite spot was out of sight. Grandpa turned to face me, and he patted me on the back. “Thank you,” he said.
“Thank you for what?”
“For making this day enjoyable. I’m really glad I decided to come to camp this weekend.”
I smiled. “Any time, Grandpa.”
Grandpa had been right. When the weekend was over and we returned home, he drew his final breath in his favourite living room recliner.
Carole Larrett
Carole Larrett