It was a warm day in the midst of our summer family holiday at the cottage and we were out in the wilds of northern Ontario blueberry picking. I was 10 years old, skinny with brown hair and green eyes. My Dad affectionately called me his little Irish fairie because I was full of mischief and had a mind of my own. The berries were abundant over the rocky outcrop of the northern shield, plump and blue and wonderfully sweet tasting. For every one that went into my bucket at least as many found their way into my mouth to quench my thirst on this hot and sultry summer day.
Like all great adventures this one took an unfortunate turn. I say this because I seem to be prone to accidental accidents wherever I am. I had wandered off from the family group daydreaming about how delicious blueberry pancakes would taste and with my bucket almost full I leaned over too far, lost my balance and kicked at a wasps nest hidden in the undergrowth. A swarm of angry insects bit my ankle in a mad rush while I screamed and tossed my bucket of berries into the air. Jumping around swiping ineffectively at the wasps I ran off down the hill where my family stood in amazement at my crazy antics.
Slathered in butter my ankle swelled up to the size of a soccer ball. That butter would have tasted wonderful on blueberry pancakes I thought to myself as I suffered for days on end. Adventures halted.