11.

     My mother picked her blueberries in the dark. "It's the only time I can get to it," she said running out in her new purple scrubs after dinner. It was actually sort of strange. She talks to herself, Bernard, me or the plants themselves - one of us, all of us, I don't know. "The birds - they go in the bushes and pick my berries," or "Watering the bush I'm picking from is not the smartest idea," as she pretty much sprayed herself with the hose she had set down by the base of the bush. Maybe that's the trick to a health garden - talk to the plants, care for them as people. No formalities but certainly no neglect. They are close friends. I think maybe some times she thinks of them as people. 

     "Look at this guy - ugliest one of them all but he has the most fruit. That's a good metaphor for life."

     "How so?"

     "Well, you know, you underestimate the ugly ones but then they bear the most fruit - they do the most good."

     Some times I feel like I'm the only holding the camera and I'm recording a senile old woman for AFV or a child for Kids Say the Darndest Things. I should probably help pick stuff next time but I might miss these nuggets of Charlotte-isms. 

HA, so many pictures of my mom. I need a new subject.