Little Red Morsels
© 2002, Tina L. Curtis
Remember the days of strawberry picking when we were young? I can still hear the whistle of the wind through the nearby wheat field. I can feel the brush of the cool wind on my sunburned cheeks. I can still feel the ache in my cramped legs from stooping over the low strawberry plants; my knees wet with the dew that settled overnight on the straw lining the rows. I can taste the sweetness in the little red morsel as it drips its red juice over my parched lips. Remember those days?My first trips to the strawberry field were with my mother. She would bring my sister and me with her as she picked through the countless rows of strawberries. As children, we were not allowed in the rows. You had to be twelve years old to help pick the little red morsels because of the fear of our careless feet stomping the tender fruit. We were permitted, however, to pick off the ends of the rows or the length of the last row in the field. We would eat every berry we picked savoring each bite. The problem was the berries in the middle of the field seemed to look bigger, redder, and sweeter than those we were allowed to pick.
Many times my sister and I would venture down the rows to get to mother to ask if we could help. Each time we tried she would holler for us to “Get out of the berry patch!” Soon we would be so full of berries that we would whine, “Is it time to go yet.” Mother would get up and dust off her knees. Leaving her berry basket when she stood, she would go to the car to retrieve some tops to placate us. That lasted only a few minutes before boredom returned. Yet it was never time to go until Mother hoisted the baskets from the ground and started for where we sat in the grass at the end of the row.
In later years, I worked at the strawberry field. Most youths who lived near the patch worked there at one time or another. I managed to avoid it until I was well into my twenties. First came the rules of berry picking. Though we were permitted to eat as we picked, we were expected to be quick and efficient. The berries had to be ready for the stand down by the road as soon as possible. We had to be sure that we picked only red berries with no white tips.
The bad part was picking the rotten berries. Anything with a brown, wet spot was beginning to rot. If left alone it would cause the berries near it to begin to rot as well. The worst berries were those that had been missed by the last picking. The berry would cling to the plant by its blackened stem. Not only were they hard to break off without uprooting the plant, they were gray, hairy and slimy. Touching them was disgusting!
As we picked, we talked. You could hear the quiet murmur of the youthful voices escalate to shouting as they worked their way down the field. Mornings didn’t seem to sit well with these kids so it took time for them to wake up. Now and then you would hear one say, “Hope it rains!” as he looked into the sky for a rain cloud. We didn’t pick in the rain. A hay wagon with a tarp over it was always close by the patch to shield the workers from a downpour. If it was a bad shower, we would go back to picking after it passed. If it lasted 20 to 30 minutes without letting up, we would be sent home.
Getting wet while picking was an everyday event. Early mornings in June were cold and wet with dew all over every plant, and the straw between the rows. If there was a threat of freezing the previous night, the berries would get watered by a sprinkler system set up in the field. !-1ornings were even colder and wetter then. If it did freeze, the ice would cling to the leaves of the plants freezing our fingertips. Yet by midmorning, everyone would begin to shed out of their sweat pants leaving on shorts so that our legs could gather the sun’s warmth. By noon complaints would begin to filter through the rows of workers. The heat was unbearable at times with the sun directly overhead. Breaks would be ordered for everyone to get a drink and perhaps a cookie made by the Misses in the house on the strawberry farm. It would get so hot that the boss would only make us stay and work until noon each day. Those who wanted could stay the afternoon and pull weeds between rows of ever bearing strawberries that wouldn’t be ready until August.
One of the best rewards for working on the strawberry farm was the offer of a free basket of berries every day we worked. We would have to stay after work to pick them ourselves on our own time, but they were worth every minute. I can still remember trying to carry them home as I rode my bicycle back to town.
Now berries in my home are rare. I don’t even like to think about stooping to pick the little red morsels. And bending over hurts worse and exposes parts that are not for public viewing. The thought of having the back of my thighs sunburned also discourages me from berry picking. It’s odd but now I don’t get free berries; I get free baskets. We used to have to pay 40 cents for a basket to pick the berries. Now I work at the basket factory and can take the baskets labeled “second class merchandise” home for free.
Yet I still love the smell and the taste of those sweet berries; the wind blowing through my hair; and hearing the children giggle as they pick at the end of the rows. I love the strawberry shortcake, the berries with vanilla ice cream, and the jam on my morning toast. It’s still a pain to pick them but the rewards remain equally pleasant.
