Always a night-owl and sleepy-head, the last thing I wanted to do during those first few weeks of summer vacation was to be dragged out of bed and put to work in the strawberry patch at eight o’clock in the morning.
When my parents bought the acreage on the edge of Knoxville, we had no idea that there was an established strawberry bed just ready for its third, and most productive, year of harvest. It was relatively weed-free (somebody had been serious about raising strawberries) and located just at the edge of a generous green lawn that had apparently been neglected in favor of the berries.
There had been a family-size strawberry patch in the garden where we had lived before, but this one was industrial sized. There was no way our family of six could use all those berries, not even if a lot of them were canned or turned into jam. I must confess that Mother certainly tried hard enough to use them when they were at their sweet, sun-ripened best, but we would tolerate only so much shortcake, strawberry sundaes and Wheaties with cream and sugar.
Mother collected new recipes for cookies, cakes, muffins and an innovative jam named Strawberry Sunshine, which was a particularly luscious jam made without cooking. To make this, halved strawberries were mixed with sugar and spread a couple inches deep in a large baking pan. The pan was then covered with glass (today we’d probably use plastic wrap) and set outdoors where it would be exposed to the hottest sunshine available. The berries were stirred every hour or so until the mixture thickened to the consistency of jam. Sealed in sterilized jars, the resulting jam had to be stored in the refrigerator, limiting the amount anyone could reasonably produce and store during a season. But, it was really wonderful, delicious jam that retained to sunny flavor of fresh berries.
My youngest sister Ruth was still a toddler so was exempt from berry-picking duty. Betty, two years my junior, either whined and griped or faked a variety of aches, pains and upset stomachs convincingly enough to be excused about half the time. My older sister went willingly to the berry patch until she had picked several quarts of only the largest berries which she delivered to “special customers” who paid her extra for the huge, perfect berries. Once the deliveries had been made, she took her time in returning to the berry patch until it was nearly time for lunch. That left Mother and me and half of Betty to deal with the berries that were newly ripened every day.
When the days had been sunniest, when there had been enough rain, when the morning was relatively cool, I actually enjoyed heading out with Mother to pick the first several quarts. But when the sun grew hotter, the morning breeze died down and the gnats and flies began pestering bare arms and legs, it became a dreaded chore. It was tempting to declare the necessity of an extended bathroom break, or to simply join Betty in stubborn refusal to subject myself to such misery. After all, Mother wasn’t a slaver-driver; on the other hand, I knew she would not quit until all the berries were picked. My conscience kept me at the task until she declared the boxes and crates full and not enough ripe berries left to keep us out in the heat and bugs one moment longer. I took pride in being dependable and in sticking with a task until it was satisfactorily finished. I felt a special bond with Mother and shared her pride in delivering the crates of fresh, red berries we picked that June.
We learned a few things about the berry business that summer. First, none of us liked canned strawberries that lost their color and texture. By the next year, Dad had bought a freezer and we learned to prepare the berries for freezing. And we learned not to leave a crate of berries sitting in the driveway while we ate lunch before heading out to deliver them to our customers. Two little pet pigs, escaped from their pen, showed us how fast they could mash their way through our morning’s work in just a few minutes.