19 years ago, Mark introduced me to his Grandparents, Nellie and Bill in Princeton. I met them before I even met his mother or his father. He admired them and I quickly learned why. He warned me on the ride over not to be discouraged when his grandfather ignored me and went out back to work. He’s not a big talker, it’s just his nature. Mark ate his words that day because as soon as I asked his grandfather what that cool looking contraption was in the driveway, he instantly took to me. (It happened to be a homemade cedar shingle maker) That day, he took me on a tour of his garage and even took me up back to his gardens. Before we left, both Nellie and Bill told me I would call them Nan and Gramp from then on. And I did.
Later visits, Gramp would share stories about the war. He told of how he witnessed the signing of the peace treaty. He also told me when he was 5 years old, he knew he was going to marry Nellie! He had seen her throwing rocks in the water one day and he yelled to her, “I’m gonna marry you Nellie Guptil!”
I admire a lot about those two, but many of my memories are surrounding their blueberry fields in Wesley, Maine. They own 20 acres of blueberry barrens and I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as the two of them did at that farm. Many may think the blueberries just grow on this own. Well, they don’t. Except for the dead cold of winter, the farm is a year-round job. After all the berries are raked and the fall leaves have dropped to the ground, Gramp burned all the bushes to the ground.
Then they prayed for snow. Lots of snow to cover the plants and protect them from frostbite.
In the spring, the fields were sprayed with velpar in an attempt to get rid of the timothy grass that makes for some difficult raking. Nan and Gramp also traveled to Bangor to pick up their bee hives. The hives were placed in various locations to promote pollunition of the plants. And then the waiting. We heard from Nan almost weekly with an update of how the plants were coming along or how the bears go into the hives or how the coyotes were in the fields in the morning.
Then in August, usually the first week, the raking begins. Back when I first started going to blueberry camp, it wasn’t uncommon to rake alongside migrants and locals. Many of the locals took a few weeks off from their regular jobs to rake, claiming they could make more money raking.
The days were long and hot. We had to be ready and in the fields at 5:00 am so the berries could get hauled to the company in Machias before it got too hot. It was cooler at 5:00am, but the minges were unbearable and those cicadas were already humming their hot song, warning the rakers that a scorcher was in store for the day. We had to wear long pants and pull wool socks up over the pants. Long sleeve shirts were worn and the minges spent their time biting at any exposed body parts. My ears would be burning by 5:30 am. The veteran rakers made it all look so easy. They could rake 4 bushels of berries in the time it took me to rake 1. I watched them to learn their technique and tried to copy them, but it never worked for me. By 7:00 am, my back was killing me and I had blisters on my blisters.
The days were so hot that the old folks that came by to visit hid in the shade of a truck and watched the rakers. Rakers took lots of water breaks and some even got lucky enough to get a quick quirt from the hose.
Nan and gramp stayed out in those fields all day long. After all the workers called it a day, usually by 1:30, their jobs were just beginning. Gramp finished loading the dump truck with crates of berries. Nan went out in the fields and wound all the string back in and went down the fields and started marking new raking fields with the string. She then spent an hour each evening hand picking her berries she would put up for the winter.
They took so much pride in those berries. They won awards for having the best fields and berries around.
Nan prepared some amazing meals, too. I don’t know how she did it. She’d be visible all day long in those fields, the next thing you knew, it was lunchtime and she was serving a roast beef sandwich on homemade bread along with a side of cucumbers from the garden. Somehow she managed to put a big meal out for supper with meat, potatoes and a garden vegetable.
The years went by and each summer, we managed to get out to the farm that first week in August to work the fields. Raking truly is the hardest job I have ever done. The grandparents got older but they insisted on doing all the hard work right alongside their family and workers. Kids grew up in those fields. The little toddlers I had seen visit their daddies in the fields were now raking in the strip next to their daddies. My own girls learned how hard it was to rake berries too. They raked for a few hours and managed to fill a bucket.
It wasn’t long before things started changing. Those little kids that grew up learned how hard it was to earn a living raking berries and they no longer came. Nan and Gramp became the first field owners to buy a mechanical harvester because they were having a hard time hiring rakers. People came from all over to check out the harvester. It felt different to me though. The old people didn’t sit around in the shade of trucks and tell stories like they used to. Every once and a while I’d ask Nan where so and so was this year and she’d say, “He passed on over the winter.” That seemed to be a common answer and I stopped asking. Nan was getting tired and Gramp was having a hard time getting around.
Then one winter, Gramp needed knee surgery. He was excited because he’d be able to get around a lot better after his knee was fixed. He got an infection after the surgery and he’s never been the same since. He tried to work the fields and soon found it was too much. Then he lost interest. His brother, Daniel came up from Connecticut to fill in for him that first week in August. Gramp sat in the camp in his recliner and made an appearance on occasion. His condition got worse, and Nan insisted she’d be his primary caregiver. Everyone pitched in and tried to help, but she’s a cantankerous lady. No one would be helping Nellie Hayward. Four years ago, her body had had enough and she died suddenly of a heart attack. Life hasn’t been the same since.
We still go to those blueberry fields every August. They now have two mechanical harvesters and gone are the days when migrants and local raked side-by-side. The roast beef sandwiches only get made if I go in and make them. Up until last summer, Gramp spent his days in the camp in his recliner. Even I couldn’t lure him for a little walk out to look at the berries. His reply was always, “I have a bad knee.” And most of the old people have passed on. I miss those gatherings. I miss Nan. She was the glue that held that camp together. Gramp asks about her all the time but he can’t really anymore.
Last summer was the first summer it really hit me. Gramp is in the Machias Veteran’s Home. I know it’s best. They take really good care of him. But walking into that camp last summer, it felt so empty. I long for the days Gramp and I would talk and he’d always end his conversation with, “Bless your heart.”
Even the boxes are different. Gramps dumptruck has been sold. The house they hauled in. Gramps patience-always teaching kids how to do stuff. Always fixing something. The old trucks have been replaced with shiny new ones.
The family still owns the Hayward Blueberry Farm in Wesley. And even though the berries still grow big and juicy, and the outhouse still stands, it’s not the same. There are more timothy grass weeds than ever, the migrants workers have been replaced with two mechanical harvesters, and the magic created by two special people has disappeared. No one lingers and tells stories anymore. It’s just a place to go and get berries for the winter.
