Strawberry Fields Forever

I've been away so long.  Still in my 45-funk.  I smile and go along for the ride, but I still feel a deep funk, that is as hard to shake as my sloth and gluttony of late.  I'm no dummy, I know there is a connection.

Moving along.

*********

When I was growing up in the 70's, I spent my summers at my grandparents house working on their farm and surrounding berry fields.  I remember the mornings, waking up so early.  The house was cold.  I remember the smell of dew in the crisp morning air as I boarded the back of my uncle's station wagon with breakfast toast in hand.  We'd cram in with our cousins and drive to the nearest family's field that needed to be picked.  I didn't like picking berries, but it wasn't a choice.  I remember kneeling on the damp ground, picking over the slugs and the wet leaves, looking for the best, big, red, juicy strawberry to fill my flat and my mouth.  By mid-day the layers of clothing would come off as the cold air would turn to warm, then to hot as the the sun blared straight up in the sky.  The hot and dry air would become rich of the smell of strawberries and by summers end that smell made me sick.  I remember the radio sitting on the fence post, playing Silly Love Songs and Afternoon Delight, and to this day those songs bring me right back there.  Camp workers would bring out barbacoa and fresh corn tortillas for lunch, I'd be just fine with my PB & J.  It would be a long day of work, and I didn't earn very much during those summers, just enough for one back-to-school outfit, barely.

Last week I took the girls and my mom to pick strawberries at a local farm.

My mom's still got it, although I out-picked her (no, I'm not competitive) 

I barely lasted an hour, the girls even less.

But the outcome of 17 pounds of strawberries is a whole lot of jam.  

dad stopped by, so I put him to work.

And some fun memories too.