Strawberry Fields

Strawberry Fields

A couple of weeks ago, my two youngest daughters invited me along with my Grandson Logan to pick strawberries. I reluctantly accepted. Reluctant only due to the fact my almost 53 year old out of shape body with bad knees and the burden of extra weight made me unsure I could manage the workout. I am so elated I decided to tag along.

I met my girls and grandson at the Strawberry field on a steamy hot Saturday that threatened rain. I was delighted and a bit full of nostalgia when I realized these was the very same fields my dear sweet Grandma Goldie and I picked our last strawberries together almost 25 years or more ago.

Boxes in hand, hat sheltering my head I knelt on the straw that lie in the middle of the aisle. It took me a moment or two to descend slowly to the ground and peek under the lush bushes to find succulent red strawberries. Looking up at my two girls already busy picking and my blonde headed grandson having a blast running between the bushes to help made the day all the more special.

We busily picked the strawberries filling out baskets with the juicy red beauties. Sweat began to pour over us and I scooted the best my poor old legs would allow. I alternated between kneeling, bending, sitting flat on my big old butt until I soon had a full basket. My hands stained red with the sweet juice of the berries and legs cramped from my crawling around, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction that I had done the hard work. I had a little help from Logan who thought it was fun to throw them at me to catch.

I have such sweet memories now and told him he was the very first grandchild to ever pick berries with this grandma. It brought to mind my own sweet grandmother and the day we sweated out in the very same field when she came up to visit. We had a wonderful time together and we took our precious berries home where she then set out teaching me to make her jam.

I snapped a few photos of the moment to capture the day with my daughters and I thought of how life had come full circle from one grandmother to another. I was much younger when grandma and I picked berries those many years ago, with only four little girls. I have since added to our family with two sons and several grandchildren.

I will forever treasure this time together, the memories they made, while an old tradition carried on to another generation. Later as I stood in my kitchen taking the stems off the berries I could almost hear my grandmother instruct me on the method and how to carefully pull the stems to savor the juice. I think she must have been telling me much more. Somewhere inside my heart I could hear her telling me to take my time and to treasure the juiciest parts of life, and to savor the sweetness.

Teresa Gale