Strawberry Love

Brenda Hartman-Souder

The two parallel plots at the west end of our large yard in rural Ohio were at least 25 feet long and several plants wide. In May, my father carefully spread straw around and under the greenery emerging from winter’s sleep. He taught my sisters and me to water properly, around the circumference of each spreading plant, to avoid injuring or shocking the white blossoms, the promise of budding fruit.

The Californian variety hits the Syracuse, New York, supermarkets in May, perfectly packed into clear "clamshell" containers. I impulsively buy and deliberately hoard them, swooshing away my kids when they circle round like vultures asking for "just one." Because after I’ve carved off the pale, stiff, unripe tops and dole out just one, there are barely enough left to make a ruby splash in each dessert dish.

They always disappoint, tasting of plastic and refrigerator. They are never sweet or juicy enough, as if they were bred to lure hapless shoppers into buying but had no intention of satisfying.

In early June they began to ripen, thousands and thousands ready to pick every several days. Summer vacation had just started, and I longed to sleep in, go swimming with friends, read books. I longed to do anything except rise early and pick quart after quart on hands and knees.

This is what I remember: three grumbling daughters and a determined mother, picking as furiously and meticulously as possible. The sun, rising relentlessly over two maple trees, baked our backs, burning through thin cotton blouses. Sweat dripped and mingled with the dewy freshness of perfectly ripe berries.

We ate all we wanted as we picked; it barely made a dent in this profusion of fertility, until finally, we had worked our way up the rows. My mother, after inspecting the plants to make sure we hadn’t left any ripe fruit behind, declared our picking finished for that morning. The berries, in pale wooden quart boxes were loaded onto cookie sheet trays and marched to the house.

By mid-June our central New York farmer’s market bursts with local berry vendors. They resemble the strawberries of my youth, crimson and shiny in their plump ripeness. The farmer assures me the berries were picked "just this morning."

I cart home several quarts and often discover that underneath the perfect fruits on top, lay some less than perfect cousins. I know there is no way these berries could have been picked less than six hours ago. There are luscious, sweet fruits, to be sure—but among them are also ones which have already turned a darker shade of claret and are spongy to touch. The hint of mold and rancid taste of too sweet, rotting fruit threatens to spoil the whole batch. But I keep buying because I love them, my kids love them, and what is summer without strawberries?

Neighbors, relatives, and church friends started to arrive at our home on Baumgartner Road, just west of Kidron, Ohio, within hours of our morning labor to buy and haul away quart after quart. Advertisement was by word of mouth, and no berry of my mother’s was ever intentionally driven down our gravel driveway if not perfectly ripe, perfectly firm, and perfectly plump. Soon our 35 quarts of picking would be reduced to a pile of quarters and $1 bills. The money earned on our one-crop farm during strawberry season was swallowed by the never ending needs of a growing family—shoes, eyeglasses, the oil bill.

The seconds, those berries too small to honorably sell, were ours to eat; several boxes of them perpetually filled the shelves of my mother’s spotless refrigerator. Homemade pie, shortcake, and sliced strawberries on ice cream completed our early summer meals night after June night.

A couple on a neighboring street planted a small raised bed of strawberries last year. We never learned their names. They don’t seem interested in saying hi, waving, or even smiling at us when our family strolls around the block each night after supper.

This summer the plants are putting forth berries in decidedly generous portions for a city garden under the partial shade of a maple. My seven-year-old daughter Val spots them and asks if we can pluck "just one." She knows better. Impulsively I launch into my teachable moment lesson about stealing, but secretly I’m with HER—I long to reach in and pull these heart-shaped globes draped over the wooden slats, plop them in my mouth, and feel their seedy texture disintegrate to succulent juice.

My mother cooked jar after jar of strawberry jam—equal parts sugar and fruit mashed together to simmer on the 1970s avocado-hued Hotpoint stove. My sisters and I were the preparation and clean-up crew but not allowed near the boiling garnet liquid. We were never permitted to stir it or skim off the white bubbling mass rising to the top.

My mother watched her strawberries like a jealous lover. Then, at the moment she deemed perfect, she’d pour the quivering hot mass into sterilized jars, screw the lids on, and wipe down each pint.

The ping of lids sealing marked the next several hours. The sign of a good woman: how many of those lids sealed. What efficiency, what cleanliness, what precision my mother displayed! Only 100 percent was good enough. She usually achieved it.

From strawberry season into fall, our kitchen burst with produce from the garden and neighboring orchards, my mother methodically processing a parade of peaches, pears, beets, beans, tomatoes, corn, and apples. Work came first; play second. Complaining was ignored.

We rented because my parents couldn’t afford to buy. We drove used cars, wore hand-me-down clothing, took obsessive care of our possessions. Vacations were limited and luxuries few. My father often chastised me about those long, wasteful showers I took as a teenager.

Economy of endearing words and physical affection were practiced as well, but we ate lavishly—love served on our plates and urged down our throats. We ate meat, potatoes, garden vegetables, every imaginable dessert. There was always more food than we could ever need.

Love was food on the table, straight and weeded rows of vegetables, perfectly folded sheets, tightly budgeted piano lessons and the without-fail attendance at both church and softball games. Love was embedded in our careful plans and routines. Love was jam bursting over hot buttered toast in winter.

I’ve found the right spot in the back of our double city lot, just in front of the old raspberry bushes that line the back boundary. It’s flat and sunny, there by the sandbox scattered with buckets, spades, and plastic dump trucks, and in no competition for the running space required of a good Wiffleball game. I see them, two dozen plants or so, pushing spiky green foliage across gently laid Sunday-newspaper bedding.

I see myself sneaking out there in June, kneeling down and eating and eating and eating, juice dripping down my chin, blood on my fingers, and grateful. I see deep-red jars of love lining my kitchen counter.

—Brenda Hartman-Souder, Jos, Nigeria, serves as co-representative of MCC Nigeria and as parent of Valerie and Greg, along with spouse Mark. She notes that strawberries available in Nigeria never make the "homegrown in Ohio" grade, but the mangoes are exceptional.