This morning, when I sat down to drink my coffee, I noticed the wild strawberry design on the cup. Instantly my thoughts were transported to our upper pasture land on the mountain in Virginia. Lots of wild strawberries used to grow there. That was seventy some years ago.
My older sister, Pearl, and I were on our way to find the strawberry patch our dad had told us about. There were three ways to get to our mountain property. That day, my sister and I traveled the longest route, walking up a narrow dirt lane called the Old House Road. We passed by a small cemetery and two wooden houses, one big and one little. The road became steeper going up by the waterfalls. The water rushing over the rocks made quite a noise around in the holler, but we couldn’t see it for the trees.
Above the falls there was a log house in good condition, but no one lived there. All of these old homes are empty. The young people who had lived here left the mountains to find good jobs or join the military. The old folks had also moved away or lived out their lives in this beautiful place. Up ahead we could see another log house and a bigger cemetery. Before we got that far, we cut to the right over a gentle hill and through some woods. Then we passed the old log house where my great aunt used to live. Under the limber twig apple tree, across a split rail fence, and there we were in a field facing south.
The big patch of wild strawberries was just where Dad said it would be. A little spring of fresh water was bubbling out of the hill just below the patch. After our morning walk in the hot June sun, we were thirsty and the cool water was very refreshing. My sister and I carried two buckets each with our dinner in one of them. We had sausage biscuits to eat. We also had glass jelly jars half full of cream with sugar and an extra biscuit to crumble in it. Our jars were placed in the little spring to cool while we ate sausage biscuits and picked one bucket of berries each. Later, when we sat down to finish our lunch, we capped strawberries into our jars of cream and sugar and crumbled in the extra biscuit. Fresh wild strawberries in cold cream with sugar and biscuit, stir with your spoon and eat. There is no other taste under the sun quite like that. It is so good. Our dinner (lunch) was more special because of our beautiful surroundings – the water gurgling in the little spring, warm sunshine on our faces, a gentle breeze, birds singing, the buzz of a honey bee’s wings as it visited a late strawberry bloom and white fluffy clouds drifting across the blue sky. That was the beauty of our day on the mountain.
It was time to fill our other buckets. The strawberries were big and it didn’t take long. Mom had told us, “Pick the stems, too, if all the berries are ripe. Then they won’t pack down in your bucket.” Coming off the mountain we took the shortest way down through the valley. The narrow dirt path we followed went past a house where a family still lived. They had several small kids. We could see the children playing over on the hill. My sister, Pearl, said softly, “Walk real fast and don’t rattle your buckets.” “Why?” I whispered loudly. About that time the rocks began whizzing past and I knew why. One hit my sister’s bucket with a ping, but they didn’t hit us. That would have hurt. Most little boys like throwing rocks. I guess they were glad to have moving targets. We hurried on and soon we were back home. A bit sunburned and very tired. Mom said, “Your berries are packed down a little.” We didn’t say anything, just glad to be home. Those strawberries made the best preserves and were so good to eat. I treasure the memories of my sister and I picking wild strawberries on the mountain.
