Don’t Be A Joyce

     We decide to wait until the warmest day of the summer so far to go stand out in a field and pick fruit at our local “PYO” farm (pick-your-own for those not involved in any 4H in high school).  In our case, we drive ten miles to a farm to gather our own harvest and pay twice the price for it.  But, it’s a fun activity, something to do together, and a reason to get out of the air conditioning (which feels stifling and confining until you leave it, and then you realize why it’s running in the first place).
     Peach and blueberry picking was described as “excellent” so we decide to be crazy and go for dual fruit.  Peaches take all of three minutes to pick our previously decided three dozen, so then we set off for the blueberries, which involves taking a little hayride out to the field. 
     The entire area is covered in what looks like mosquito netting as to not let in berry hungry birds.  You slip through the net at the beginning and then you’re in a world of fruit.  We decide on the divide and conquer method, leaving our flat in the middle of a row and each of us taking a quart container.  It’s easy to get lost in the mazelike quietness.
    After my quart is full, I’m wandering around, simultaneously looking for Noah and for the flat, and I’m aware of a father and his sons that are around the same area I am in.  Dad is a typical dad- big floppy hat on, cell phone strapped to his belt, dressed head to toe in what he probably considers to be outside, rugged clothing.  My first thought is When did berry picking become an adventure sport? but I silence my thoughts in my continuous effort to only think nice things.  I’m now standing in front of Dad, and he says loudly “you’ve got some big ones!”  It takes me a split second to realize that he is talking about the blueberries in my hands.  I give him my polite laugh and continue walking.  I listen to Dad and sons banter back and forth- the kids are about ten or twelve, old enough to be at the beginning stages of parental embarassment.  Dad suddenly realizes that his wife is nowhere to be found, and the boys dart back, retracing their steps.
    Finally, Mom appears- slightly out of breath, face flushed, wearing ankle length pants and sweating bullets.  Mom is clearly not having fun.  She is hot, she is tired, she is finding nothing entertaining at all about being in this patch of bushes and embracing all of the places on your body that produce sweat in situations like this.  Mom can’t figure out how to cut through the bushes, or go under the nets, or pick very much.  The boys are both frustrated at Mom’s inability to keep up, and proud that they’re able to do things she can’t.  Dad’s exasperated cries of “Joyce!” over and over make me smile at this whole scene.  Finally, Joyce’s complaints subside when everyone thinks they now have enough blueberries, so they head for a break in the netting to wait for the next retrieval hayride and the creature comforts that are so desperately needed at this moment.
    I assume that Dad and Joyce and their boys made it safely back to their 72-degree house without any heat-related illnesses.  I think about sweat, and how it is the body’s way of cooling off itself from exertion.  Traipsing through a field with your kids may have been effort for Joyce, but I can’t help but compare how I relished the sweat from doing something fun with someone fun.
    Tonight, after dinner is made but not yet eaten, Noah and I are on the deck, reflecting back on how hot today was, how we skipped the hayride back to the farm and opted to walk up the hill in an effort to take in the views, and how excited we both were that our respective deodorant/anti-perspirants were not only tested but passed.  I ask him, jokingly, if he noticed that I didn’t complain once today about being hot, or tired, or thirsty, or sweaty, or overall uncomfortable.
     He smiles and says, “Yeah, I did notice.  You weren’t a Joyce!”
     “Don’t be a Joyce,” I echo.