Willa's Blueberry Hill

Willa’s Blueberry Hill

Willa Beth Givens never did find her thrill on Blueberry Hill—though not for lack of trying. There’d been one or two maybes and a whole handful of absolutely nots, but Willa lived by the philosophy that it was far better to be alone than to listen to someone chew cereal too loudly for the rest of your natural life.

She lived in a crooked farmhouse just outside a one-street Ontario farm town where the tractors had right of way and everyone knew whose barn dance ended in tears. Her front porch sagged in a way that suggested wisdom, not neglect, and the old shed beside the lilac hedge had become something of a local legend.

Willa’s Antiques & Oddments, open Fridays only, sunup to sold out, was crammed full of enamel basins, chipped teacups, pressed glass candy dishes, and furniture that smelled like time. Willa never advertised, not even on Facebook, but word got out—especially about the pies.

Every Thursday afternoon, Willa would tie on her apron (cream linen, embroidered with blueberries, naturally), put on a radio station that played nothing recorded after 1972, and got to work. She baked well into the night, accompanied by the hum of crickets and the occasional thump from a raccoon attempting larceny.

The result was her signature creation: Blueberry Pie for One.

Each was a petite, palm-sized beauty baked in a four inch tin foil pan, crust golden and sugared, blueberries bubbling up like secrets. She sold them for five dollars flat, no tax, no nonsense. A hand-painted sign at the end of her long gravel drive read:

“BLUEBERRY PIES FOR ONE — UNTIL SOLD OUT”
(underneath, in smaller letters: “No, you may not reserve them. That’s not how pie works.”)

By 8 a.m. Friday, a line would form. Farmers in overalls. Retired schoolteachers. Teenagers in search of something ironic. They’d mill around the driveway sipping thermoses of coffee and hoping Willa hadn’t run out before their turn.

Willa, in her linen dress and cloud of soft brown hair, would unlock the shed promptly at 9:00 with a key shaped like a tulip and call out, “Alright, you lot! No pushing, and don’t try to sweet-talk me out of a second pie ‘til everyone’s been served.” Then she’d plop a tattered wooden sign up against the old maple tree. It was a pun by her late Mother who always said, ‘Pie Are Round. Cake Are Square’.

Folks came for the antiques, sure—but it was the pie they talked about. Served warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream if you were lucky enough to befriend Willa, the pie was rich with whole berries and the kind of crust that could make a widow weep.

“Why only for one?” someone asked once.

Willa shrugged. “Because you deserve something just for you, sugar. No sharing, no forks fighting for the last bite. Just peace, blueberries, and a little butter.”

She never married, never moved, and never once raised her prices. And though she never found her thrill on Blueberry Hill, she built her own hill of sorts—made of pie tins, antique spoons, and a quiet kind of joy that didn’t need to be shared to be worth everything.

ORDER fine art print of ‘Pie Are Round Cake Are Square’ here.

COPYRIGHT 2007-2025 Patti Friday b.1959.