Photos for this article courtesy Amy Weiland

FOR THE RECORD, I hate blueberries. Here at home in western Nebraska, I avoid them like lizard avoids the cold spot on a rock. So when I am given the opportunity to go blueberry picking in eastern Tennessee, I expect to enjoy the picking but not the fruit.

Am I in for a surprise!

We bump along the scenic back roads that line the vineyards of Charleston, Tennessee (about an hour south of Knoxville). Born and raised in the drought-ridden Midwest, I will never get over the verdant beauty of green oceans of kudzu vines and rugged pine trees climbing up from the red earth to touch the cloud-wisped skies. We turn into the Morris Vineyard & Tennessee Mountainview Winery and into view of the long rows of grape vines, the wide curly leaves somehow both fresh and ancient, the stems burdened under a burgeoning crop of muscadines and scuppernongs. A little farther down the road, we park in front of the expansive pale brick Visitor’s Center, Tasting Room & Store.

The soft humidity of the Tennessee afternoon engulfs me as I climb out of the van and collect my sturdy, plastic bag-lined bucket. It’s a daunting first sight. I’m supposed to fill this huge bucket with tiny blueberries? My second thought assures me that since I have no intention of eating any as I pick, I will have no trouble piling my bucket full. My friends and I walk the few yards to where the blueberry bushes stretch in neat rows, the imposing slate blue of the Smoky Mountains looming in the distance.

Picking blueberries in Tennessee

Nose scrunched in anticipation of the pungent taste I’ve never been able to convince myself I like, I slip the berry onto my tongue and pop its warmth against the roof of my mouth. I’m thrilled to discover not the store-bought dilution I’m accustomed to, but rather a sweetness underlined by a seductive tartness. Suddenly, my chances of returning home with a full bucket aren’t looking so positive!

Back home in my non-vacationing life, a jam-packed schedule and poor soil have conspired to keep me out of the garden. But I love being close to the earth. I love the dry warmth of the soil under my knees as I kneel next to the bushes and duck under the branches to reach the clusters hidden near the bush’s center. The berries slip off the vine with barely a pinch and roll into the center of my palm. Those that aren’t immediately tossed into my mouth fall into the bucket with a soft thump and a rustle of the plastic bag.

The day's pickin's

My bucket is barely half full by the time we retreat to the Visitor’s Center to weigh our prizes. But our combined efforts produce enough berries to create a delicious blueberry crisp when we get back home. Sun-warmed and content, I lounge in a wooden chair at the kitchen table and load my spoon with vanilla ice cream and blue and purple dribbles of blueberry sweetness.

Suddenly, thanks to a wonderful afternoon at the Morris Vineyard, I’ve been converted to a lover of blueberries extraordinaire!

If you’re interested in scheduling a blueberry-picking venture of your own the next time you’re planning a trip East, you can contact Morris Vineyard by calling (423) 479-7311, writing them at 346 Union Grove Rd NE, Charleston, TN 37310, or emailing them via their contact form. Morris Vineyard is open daily 11-7, Sundays 12-7, and 9-8 during fruit season. Closed on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.

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K.M. Weiland

HERE’S A WINTER pic my husband took of me as we gathered seashells on Barefoot Beach right before sunset.

Hard to believe that was only last week! Yesterday it snowed here in Youngstown, Ohio. My light suntan and the array of tropical-themed postcards on my desk are the only remaining evidence that just days ago I was cavorting under palm trees, swimming laps and working on my screenplay by the pool.

Brian was attending the International Maintenance Conference at the Hyatt Regency in Bonita Beach, Florida and his five-star boss shouted us an extra ticket so I could go too. Lucky me!

On the way back from Barefoot Beach we stopped in at Mango Bay Beach Co. for a little tourist shopping. I bought essentials such as “frogs on the half shell” (too adorable to pass up), tiny track suits for my baby grandson, a beach bag and sun hat, and the obligatory postcards of manatees and other symbols of Florida.

Sanibel Scribbles by Christine Lemmon

The word “scribbles” naturally made me curious (I was hoping the story would be something to do with writing). The inviting cover suggested a novel with a beach theme, and a handsome gold seal announced it as an autographed copy. I snatched it up and flipped to the back cover.

SANIBEL SCRIBBLES is a story about a woman who sets her never-ending “to-do” list aside and takes off on a venture, encountering strangers who entangle her in their secrets. The insights they share redirect her steps and forever alter her perception of life. Inspired by their wisdom, she returns to the café and rewrites her tablecloth scribbles. Her new list is nothing like the old.

Christine Lemmon has been walking the beaches of Sanibel since she was a child. She lives on the island and her love for the area has inspired her writing. She is also the author of Portion of the Sea.

With a blurb like that, how could I resist? I promptly added postcards of Sanibel Island to my collection and promised myself to return and visit the island someday.

Meanwhile, Brian found it ironic that even in a store selling beach trinkets, a book was still the first thing I managed to lay eyes on.

Hey, ever heard of the Reticular Activating System? The RAS is a mechanism in the brain that determines what we pay attention to. This helps us avoid being overwhelmed by the millions of bits of information and stimulation coming our way in every moment. With our thoughts and preferences, we give it instructions on what to alert us to (for instance, when you set a goal you are telling your RAS to focus on anything that will help you achieve it).

My book RAS is working very well, thank you!

Photo of Milli on Barefoot Beach Copyright © 2009 Brian Williams