Grammy shook her head and tossed waders to all three of them. “Nice to see you, Pug. Now, let’s get to work. These berries won’t harvest themselves.”
Gramps snuck her a look, then quickly scampered away with Beans. “I’ll just take this pup for a walk. He’s been in the car a long time.”
“So have I,” Pug said, giving their retreating figures a longing look.”
Grammy gave them a stern look. “Now, we have work to do before I show you something special.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they all said, giving small salutes.
She laughed, then instructed them on how to harvest the berries. A light fog clung low over the bog, turning the whole field into a soft, silver dream. The wooden boards creaked under their boots as they hurried behind Grammy.
“Slow down, slow down,” She laughed, adjusting her wool hat. “Cranberries won’t run away.”
“They look like they’re floating,” Pug said, leaning over the edge of the flooded bog.
The water was speckled with red as thousands of tiny crimson berries drifted on the surface like scattered jewels.
“That’s the trick,” Grammy said. “They float. That’s how we gather them.”
She stepped carefully into the shallow water, her tall rubber boots making gentle ripples. In her hands was a long wooden rake with curved teeth.
“First,” she said, holding it up, “you loosen the berries from the vines.” She dipped the rake into the water and gently combed through the plants beneath the surface. The water trembled, and more berries popped free, bobbing up to join the others.
“What the frick?” Fernando gasped in delight. “They’re popping.”
Grammy grinned. “That’s the sound of October.”
Walker crouched down and poked one berry. It drifted away slowly. “They’re so red.”
“Because they’re finally ready,” Grandma said, giving him a knowing look. She handed Fernando a rake. “Your turn.”
Fernando waded beside her, tongue stuck out in concentration as he copied the motion. More berries floated up, and soon the water was crowded with berries.
Grammy pulled a floating boom, a long yellow barrier, across the bog, guiding the cranberries together into a thick red cluster. “Now we herd them,” she explained. “Just like sheep.”
Pug laughed. “Berry sheep.”
With long nets, they slowly pushed the berries toward a pump at the edge of the bog. The machine hummed softly, sucking the floating fruit into a large crate.
Pug picked one up and held it carefully. “Can we eat them?”
Grandma chuckled. “Sure. Go ahead and give it a try.”
He took a bite and immediately scrunched up his face. “That’s so sour. Disgusting. How could you do this to me, woman?”
Walker and the others burst into laughter. “Serves you right,” Walker said, shoving his friend.
“That’s why we make sauce,” Grammy said, chuckling. “And juice. And pies.”
The fog began to lift as the sun climbed higher, lighting the bog so the cranberries glowed like rubies across the water.
Grammy leaned on her rake and looked out over the bog. “My Dad showed me this same thing,” she said softly. “One October, years ago.”
Walker looked up from where he worked. “Thank you for showing us this. It’s so peaceful and straightforward. I love it.”
Grammy smiled. “That makes me very happy, sweet boy.”
Water lapped gently against the rubber waders as they moved slowly through the bog, their scoops pushing floating cranberries into long red ribbons.
