There is something about the air today that made it very reminiscent of days that I spent as a child at my Grandma Laura’s farm. Aunt Corrine drove a tractor pulling a hay wagon with Grandma Laura and me riding on the wagon dangling our legs over the side. We were heading behind the grove to the strawberry patch. I worked beside grandma and Corrine picking strawberries that had to be just the correct ripeness. Our take for one picking was multiple flat dish pans of ruby red berries. The next day would find jar upon jar of jam ready to be put in the cellar. The day after that would find us back in the patch. Jams, jellies and sauce to feed the farm crew during an entire year.
I can tell you, when my head hit that feather pillow each night, I was totally out. Ironically, I can almost smell the mix of musk of an upstairs area, not often used, and mothballs. Priceless.