Sun, Fresh Strawberries, and Sand
Posted 05-12-2012 at 08:59 AM by LookinForMayberry
This morning I finished hand-sewing Bigun's disemboweled plush toys, and was pouring myself a fresh coffee when I caught the scent of the ripe strawberries DH brought home from the market yesterday. Rarely are the store bought ones ever ripe enough to actually smell or taste like a strawberry, but these are and the scent recalled a time.
It must've been in the summer, because the day was hot, the sun was high, and the sand beneath my bare feet would sting with each fresh step. It must've been in the later mid-60s because I was not yet ten and we still lived in the ranch house across the street from Grandpa's farmhouse, and Mom had not yet divorced Dad.
Grandpa's farm was bisected by by the ol' State Road that connected Hastings to Middleville, and the strawberry field -- maybe a half-acre, ran lengthwise from the old white dairy barn (his factory for polishing and buffing, by then) to the road. Corn was growing deep green in the fields beyond, with the woods behind them topped by blue skies and not one cloud in sight.
Mom and Aunt Nita bent over the rows of stawberry plants, stripped down to their bras and with their shorts rolled up to their butts. (I was scandalized, but THEY didn't care.) Cars would drive by, honking their horns, but they would just wave, laughing to each other as they continued dropping the fragrant, plumb red strawberries into their colanders, sweat dripping from them to the sands below.
Once filled, they would call me over with the sieve -- a wooden frame with a screen bottom. I would CAREFULLY carry my load to the old aluminum lawn chair, painted red. Setting the frame across the arms of the chair, I GENTLY ran the hose over the berries until the sand was off and they shone. Then, shaking the frame lightly to release the excess water, I would set it in the shade on the concrete wall next to the barn, where the breeze would dry them. Picking up the next frame, nibbling the ripe red flesh from a few I'd selected -- just to make sure they were okay -- I returned to watch, and wait.
It must've been in the summer, because the day was hot, the sun was high, and the sand beneath my bare feet would sting with each fresh step. It must've been in the later mid-60s because I was not yet ten and we still lived in the ranch house across the street from Grandpa's farmhouse, and Mom had not yet divorced Dad.
Grandpa's farm was bisected by by the ol' State Road that connected Hastings to Middleville, and the strawberry field -- maybe a half-acre, ran lengthwise from the old white dairy barn (his factory for polishing and buffing, by then) to the road. Corn was growing deep green in the fields beyond, with the woods behind them topped by blue skies and not one cloud in sight.
Mom and Aunt Nita bent over the rows of stawberry plants, stripped down to their bras and with their shorts rolled up to their butts. (I was scandalized, but THEY didn't care.) Cars would drive by, honking their horns, but they would just wave, laughing to each other as they continued dropping the fragrant, plumb red strawberries into their colanders, sweat dripping from them to the sands below.
Once filled, they would call me over with the sieve -- a wooden frame with a screen bottom. I would CAREFULLY carry my load to the old aluminum lawn chair, painted red. Setting the frame across the arms of the chair, I GENTLY ran the hose over the berries until the sand was off and they shone. Then, shaking the frame lightly to release the excess water, I would set it in the shade on the concrete wall next to the barn, where the breeze would dry them. Picking up the next frame, nibbling the ripe red flesh from a few I'd selected -- just to make sure they were okay -- I returned to watch, and wait.
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