Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, June 4, 1993 TAG: 9306040459
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: B1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Ed shamy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
People who do not eat strawberries.
People who do eat strawberries but prefer to buy strawberries picked by someone else.
People like Pam Bolling and Nancy Atkins, Susan Humphries and Nancy Cabaniss. They know that no strawberry is as sweet, as succulent, as utterly satisfying as the strawberry they pick with their own fingers.
They are the pick-your-own crowd, a loosely knit union, and this is their season.
Silent armies of them descend onto the strawberry patches this time of year, parting the deeply ridged leaves in search of the most sugary, most tender, reddest berry of them all.
They will endure searing sun and sucking mud, will share the patch with prehistoric-looking, iridescent bugs.
They will stain their fingertips maroon and strain their lower backs, dirty their knees and slog in wet shoes.
They will be hard-pressed to explain the satisfaction they derive from the gentle plop of a berry skillfully parted from its stem - the plunk of a strawberry landing in the bottom of a plastic pail.
They will grope toward explaining why they don't opt to buy strawberries wrapped in cellophane.
Yes, it is cheaper to pick your own.
But it would probably be cheaper, too, to slaughter your own steer and turn it into chopped meat.
Not many people seize that opportunity.
Nancy Atkins says it is about exercise, sunshine and fresh air - none of which is readily available at grocery stores.
Atkins squatted between rows of strawberry plants at Garrett Farms, west of Salem, on Thursday, gently parting leaves and steadily filling her bucket. She had driven to this spot from her home near Atlanta, part of an annual ritual when visiting relatives. She's a regular.
Not so Susan Humphries, sitting on the bed of straw between the rows.
Her dungarees were heavily stitched at the knees, a veteran's badge, but Humphries is in her first season of picking. She showed the early signs of addiction. She proudly hoisted high her larger berries.
Her sister, Nancy Cabaniss - who drove from Lexington to pick in Salem - nodded approvingly.
Pam Bolling single-mindedly filled her bucket nearby, paused to retell about growing strawberries in a backyard in Florida during another, more youthful life. Wiping strands of hair from her forehead with the back of a hand, she told of a cake - bananas and strawberries and pineapple layered between levels of shortcake, covered in icing, topped with shredded coconut.
Bolling planned to prepare one of the fruitcakes later in the day.
I offered to share, an offer which - to my stunned delight - she accepted.
She left, but didn't tell me her address.
Pam Bolling, wherever you are, I understand why you pick your own strawberries. I toil beside you. I am part of the union, the sorority of pick-your-own-ers.
I know that picking your own berries is a way of reminding yourself that - out of control as our world may seem - wildly sugary treats still spring from its loamy loins.
But Pam, that was a cruel trick you played on your berry-picking brother.
That cake from your childhood, that fruit delight with our dew-washed berries.
Is there a piece left?
by CNB