Below is a post from June 15, 2013. It reminded me of one of the things I loved at my old house. I want, rather, I need this tradition to continue. I better hurry up and plant some strawberries!

——————————————

I’m sure summers were longer when I was a little kid. I loved summer. One of my favorite memories is picking strawberries with my grandmother. It’s funny how some memories are so tactile. I can close my eyes and feel the warm sun on my shoulders. I’m wearing one of those little girl sun suits on and holding my grandmothers hand. The morning smells sweet. Flowers are blooming. The strawberries grow at the edge of the yard, where our property meets an open field. They are those small wild berries, the kind you never see in a store. We walk along the edge of the grass carefully picking our delicate, fragrant little delights. Grandmother takes me back into the house and lifts me into the high chair. She mashes the warm berries with a fork and puts a little sugar and milk on them. I wait with anticipation for the first delicious spoonful. Just as the fruit nourished my body, the memory nourishes my soul.

I grow strawberries in my garden and pick them with my grandchildren.