This is a story that goes way back in time, when my son Anthony who just recently turned thirty-six was no more than seven years old. It also involves the Strawberry Moon which is the full moon in June closest to the time when strawberries ripen and are ready to be picked.
Anthony, his father and I had the good fortune of owning a house in Southampton, which is all the way out on the east end of Long Island. We spent every summer there for fifteen years. The entire area of what we know as “The Hamptons” is a very beautiful place to live or vacation. It is absolutely delightful with stretches of farmland, pristine beaches, bays dotted with fishermen fishing, clamming and crabbing, and little ones swimming while their watchful parents looked on from the sand. There are also hiking trails that wind around large ponds that boast the biggest and oldest snapping turtles in existence.
The farm owners offer very big areas of land to what they designate as, “Pick Your Own.” Traditionally, every June, Anthony and his father would get up early one perfect weather weekend morning and make their way over to Big Hank’s Farm on Route 27 to pick strawberries. Rumors would always spread quickly that there was an abundance of rosy red, big, fat, plump and juicy strawberries waiting to be plucked from their patches.
Always racing, never walking out to the car, Anthony and his father would buckle up and start the early morning drive to Big Hank’s. They talked and talked about how delicious those strawberries were going to taste.
Approaching the farm, they could already see the hand painted sign stating,” Local Strawberries, Pick Your Own.”Big Hank would always stand off to the side, helping customers as they arrived. He always went over the rules for picking. “All right” shouted Big Hank, “You take a basket over here and use it to put the strawberries that you pick in it. When your basket is full, you come over to me and I’ll put the basket on the scale to weigh it. The price that you pay is then determined by the weight of the strawberries in the basket.”
“Okay, okay,” Anthony would always say impatiently. Then he would say, “Come on Dad, let’s hurry up and go before the strawberries are all gone” “That would be impossible,” thought his dad considering the expansive rows and rows of strawberry bushes. Anthony and his Dad would weave their way in and out of the bushes. When Anthony started getting tired of picking, he would make his way toward the scale, his Dad following right behind him.
As Anthony gets closer and closer to the scale, Big Hank stands there watching him with a big smile planted across his face. He looks at Anthony and sees that his tee shirt is stained a juicy red all the way from the top to the bottom. Upon continued inspection, Big Hank checks Anthony’s lips which are speckled a light red. Surprisingly, Anthony’s chin and cheeks look like someone took a watered down red paintbrush and swiped his face with it.
Anthony reached up and gave Big Hank his basket of strawberries. There really weren’t all that many strawberries to weigh. Big Hank looked at the basket, looked at the scale and then took one more look at Anthony who, by the red stains on his tee shirt, lips, chin and cheeks, confirmed that he definitely ate more strawberries than he put in his basket. Big Hank let out a big, hardy laugh, took the basket from Anthony and said, “I should put you on the scale.
It was all in good fun and that night, Anthony’s father was sure he saw the full Strawberry Moon smiling down at him with a twinkle in his eyes, Or could it have been Big Hank’s look of amusement he saw when Anthony was done picking strawberries earlier that day?
Ellen G.
June 2020
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