The Joys of Strawberry Season.

On our way into town, we passed a corners, with a country store. It was obvious there had been a very serious accident. The road was covered in red.

On the way back home, we stopped at the store to find out, what had happened. 

The son of a local farmer, enjoying pulling a wagon took a bit too tight of a turn. Unfortunately, the wagon tipped spilling thousands of freshly picked strawberries onto the road. It wasn't the red sea, but it was a significant pond. The only thing hurt was the young mans pride and the red, red strawberries.

It is Strawberry Season. City cars stream along the country roads headed straight towards a favourite u-pick.

In other fields, out of province workers are stooped over the rows of straw. The straw surrounds each of the thousands of plants, to gently hold the strawberries from the damp soil. Some of the workers fly up from Jamaica, each summer, to help in agriculture. 

Earlier in the week, I joined an annual pilgrimage to a Baptist Church in nearby Billtown. We arrived early, but lines had already begun to form. The food was already on tables in open tents. It was a beautiful, warm late afternoon.

Everything was as it had been last year, the year before that, the year before that, for many years back. Women from all generations stood in their matching aprons, with serving spoons at ready. At the head of the serving tables we received plates, cutlery, serviettes and were then off along the table-  significant slices of ham right from the oven, scoops of potato salad, with or without onions, homemade Nova Scotian baked beans and fresh brown bread and pickles of all sorts were scooped onto our plates. We were offered tea, coffee or cider from a local orchard.

We searched out places at the many picnic tables. Some of the faces at the tables were familiar, others not. All were transfixed by the magnificence on the plates and we hadn't even made eye contact with the strawberry shortcakes and recently whipped cream.

It wasn't long until our plates were empty, we began thinking of dessert. We were all full as ticks, but after all, this was a Strawberry Supper. The best was still to come.

The strawberries glistened a bright ruby red, as only perfectly ripe strawberries glow. Crushed berries slipped over and down the sides of the shortcake. Huge, perfect, whole berries sat atop a cloud of real, fresh whipped  cream.

Summer is here.

In days, I was off one early morning with friends to a no spray strawberry patch on the mountain. The patch had seen better days. Daisies grew profusely among the plants. It seems I am no longer the enthusiastic berry picker of years gone by, but it wasn't long until my quart  boxes were full. We drove out through a lane in a hay field and up to a very old farmhouse where we paid for our berries. The elderly farmer said he wasn't much good at figuring, but he was far better than we are.

There is no sense making jam, as my friend makes the best strawberry jam in the province.

Before too long, my berries were washed, hulled and turned into a strawberry compote. Someday next winter, a little bit of summer will come back into the kitchen.

Now is time for a fine cup of tea.

In a few days, bring on the raspberries.

Haying for the Horses

I went haying on the weekend. I went haying, but it would be erroneous to view me as a fully active participant.

I participated in this heavily, labour intensive enterprise. I stacked bales - some, I drove the truck - some, I threw bales up onto the wagon - not a bit. I was a walk on player in a grand production.

It was a glorious day. It seemed as if the whole population of Lunenberg County was making hay while the sun shone. The land was as beautiful as the day. A grove of rustling beech trees, on the ridge of a hill separated us from a nearby lake. The entire field was surrounded by trees.

The hay had just been cut and baled in square bales. It was dry and sweet. Our job was to gather and load the hay, on wagons to be taken back to the barn some ways off. It is amazing, how quickly the field was cleared.

Young men, in their prime, tossed the bales as if they were of no weight at all. The older men and women weren't left far behind. I, on the other hand, carried bales, with some effort to form  little centralized spots, where the truck stopped and the real hefting took place. I took pictures.

When the wagons were loaded, we took a rest, and took care of our thirst. Water was the beverage of choice.

Back at the barn the clickedy, clackedy, hay elevator was started. All the beautiful hay we had just loaded was unloaded, brought into the barn and sent up to be stacked in the loft. The barn swallows were most alarmed.

The well fed horses, in their stalls, took keen interest in all the activity. I don't believe they quite comprehended all this was being done for them.

As evening came, we gathered around the empty wagons, quenching our thirst with water and a brew or two. The salty potato chips replenished sodium, lost through the sweat of our brows and most of the rest of our bodies. Fat was well chewed, then all returned to their homes to eat and rest so that we could begin again the next day.

I went into my friends', welcoming home, had dinner with a glass or two of wine, saw the sun set, went to bed and slept well throughout the night, waking early to the bird songs and the sun streaming into my bedroom.