June 8, 2014

Strawberry Remembering

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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