Summer announced itself like banner plane buzzing the beach.
The mid-eighties temperatures made me shed pants for shorts and rummage through the drawers to find a sleeveless shirt.
A light breeze ruffled the full leaves and their undersides flashed silver.
Summer's first fruit, local strawberries, were available. I beelined down the road, windows down, elbow on the car door. (I didn't even think about Mother's dire warning that my arm could get cut off doing that!)
As I drove up and down our hills, a tractor grumbled through a field. I smelled the warm, dry hay, its fragrance released by the farmer's blade.
My farmer-neighbor's cabbage formed tight green heads in tidy rows.
The barley bent under the growing weight of the spikelets.
|barley by Victor Szalvay|
At Country Road Strawberries the gate hung open and I drove up the gravel drive. Pickers bent in half over the plants, saving me the work.
Under the metal-roofed shed the berries, intensely red and capped by green hulls, nestled in the white cardboard boxes. I lifted the box, and the jostled berries released their perfume.
What says "Welcome, Summer!" better than fresh strawberries?