It’s funny how an unexpected experience
quickly unlocks childhood memories that had been filed away gathering cobwebs
in the recesses of the brain.
A patch of strawberries, surrounded by small tomato and pepper plants
took me for a walk down memory lane.
Purple martins chirped nosily, flying in
and out of the birdhouses centered in the garden. Below, I searched beneath the deep green saw-toothed
clusters of three leaves where the best berries hide. Dad picked berries on the opposite side of the row.
Nearly 40 years have passed since I last
picked strawberries with my dad in his Sharptown garden. An avalanche of memories tumble forth
making me laugh and also wonder when childhood had slipped away.
As I step back in time, I’m no longer
alone with Dad in the garden. My
sisters and brothers are there as well.
We pick opposite of one another, arguing, encouraging and reminding each
other to “pick it clean.” I won’t
mention names, but there was a sibling who only wanted to pick the big berries.
After the rows of berries were picked
clean the Sparks kids and cousins admired the dozens of neatly packed red
berries in the brown woodchip quart boxes. We carefully carried the fragile berries across the freshly tilled
soil towards the house. Often we
sported red fingers. Sometimes stains ran down our chins where the juicy
berries overflowed.
Often the berries were sold in front of
the house. Other times dad loaded
the back of his old beat-up GMC truck and we went door to door selling the
fresh picked fruit. That’s not
something one could do today without a license.
Almost five decades ago, when I was 10,
the berries sold for $.75 to $1.00 a quart. One could pick a quart at different farms for $.25. The Sparks family used the strawberry
proceeds for vacation.
We didn’t just sell the berries. There was still canning and freezing
ahead. Berries were capped, sliced and stored in the freezer for wintertime
treats. More berries were again capped, sliced and mashed to make
strawberry jam.
Because I was quick, and because I was
the oldest, I usually was the de-capper. I’d insert the knife blade just under
the star like cap and pop up, over and over, thousands and thousands of times,
until the berries floating in the cleansing water disappeared.
Capped berries went into the bowl where
the slicer began to work. Usually
my cousin (aunt) Judy Price would be slicing the berries next to me. After she filled a bowl with quartered
and sliced berries, the bag filler began the task of filling quart bags with the aromatic bright red
fruit.
The best part about strawberry season was
the strawberry shortcake. Dad
would slightly mush the berries and add some sugar while Mom baked up large
pans of golden brown shortcake.
Our grandfather, John Sparks, lived with us. He loved his strawberries. That meant that Mom was making shortcake for twelve.
This week I picked 20 quarts of
strawberries from Dad’s garden while he was away. Husband, Ed, who does better with boating things, picked the
first berries of his lifetime. No,
he didn’t pick them clean. He went
for the big berries, just like a sibling of mine.
I went behind him cleaning up the
row.
I washed, capped, sliced and froze the
berries later that afternoon. The kitchen smelled heavenly. I reminisced about the good times I had
with the family during those childhood years.
Judy is on my mind and in my thoughts as
she watches her husband’s declining health. While I am far away, hospice
workers offer support and comfort.
I wonder if she might smell the strawberries? I think of her and imagine
that she does.
Dad is getting a little more stooped and
a little grayer each year. Mom’s
challenges have taken away her ability to drive, or cook, and sometimes to
remember the names of her children and grandchildren.
Heck, I’m getting grayer each year. I’m
guessing that I must have been more limber (imagine that) in my youth. I don’t remember the hamstrings talking
to me the following day. Oh yeah,
muscles and ligaments can be quite loud.
While the hamstrings bark, I search
through recipes for strawberry jalapeño jam. Last year I made blackberry jalapeño jam that was a hit with
fellow boaters. Small half
pint jars make a nice gift for someone who has done something nice. It also makes a great appetizer when spread
over a block of cream cheese and served with crackers.
Next winter while we cruise, I will enjoy
strawberry memories as we share drinks and companionship with fellow
boaters. Strawberry memories have
sweetened the strawberries even more this season.
In my opinion, the only berries as good
as the ones in Dad’s garden are the ones farm grown on Quaker Neck Road. Many years ago, the Battiato boy’s
began selling strawberries as a way to earn extra cash. Frank has strawberry memories of his
own that maybe one day he will share with his children, my grandchildren.
Dr. William Butler a 17th
century English writer once wrote about the strawberry, “Doubtless God could
have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did.” I’ll bet he had strawberry memories
too.
Native American Indians were already eating strawberries when
the colonists appeared on their shores.
They crushed the berries and mixed it into cornmeal. Colonists came up with their own
versions, which were probably the origins of strawberry shortcake.
Not only does the strawberry convey
memories, it is a very special fruit.
It is a member of the rose family.
It is also the only fruit with the seeds on the outside. If you don’t have some strawberry
memories of your own, maybe it is time to start. Those memories will last the rest of your life.
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