sweetness shared

When my car exited the freeway at 232nd street, I knew the subconscious mind had won again. I'd been thinking about strawberries, sweet and fragrant, ripening in the June sunshine. In a blink, I was pulling into a parking spot at Krause Berry Farm. A heady scent wafted on the afternoon breeze. People sipped pastel milkshakes and smoothies. Flats of glowing scarlet berries lined the counter. I was soon on my way with a heaping basket of very toothsome fruit on the seat beside me and a plump, juicy strawberry turnover in my hand. I never knew about domestic strawberries as a child. We grew up picking little wild ones. It seems that the flavor of wild fruit is somehow condensed and intensified. One tiny wild strawberry can bombard the taste buds and is everything a strawberry should be. I have a very clear memory of a childhood summer in Blue River. Sweaters were needed even on summer days it seemed, if not for warmth, then to slow down the mosquitoes. I remember coming upon a patch of wild strawberries on a solitary ramble and running home for a cup to pick them into. The June sun warmed my back as I crouched to pick, a very tiny harvest and a very tiny harvester. A melmac mug, brim full was proudly presented to Mom who doled them out atop ice cream for dessert. Sweetness shared.