I eavesdrop shamelessly in the strawberry fields. I listen to the casual comments called back and forth across the row.
“How ya’ doin’, Frank?”
“Pretty good. You?”
“I’m almost done over here.”
There’s a quiet rhythm to berry picking, and conversations slow down to match that pace. Words and phrases drop softly into the air, like berries into green cardboard quart containers. Stories unfold about grandchildren, septic problems, celebrations and health scares.
This morning it’s damp and foggy. I stick to my row, picking berry after berry, sliding my slowly-filling container along with me. My sweater sleeves are sodden from reaching through the plants in search of ripe berries. My jeans are plastered to my lower legs.
I don’t remember picking berries with my grandmother or mother. Still, there were always quilted glass jars, gleaming in jewel tones in the pantry. In those days they poured melted wax across the top of the jam before capping it. I remember so clearly, so viscerally, opening the jar to that wax circle. Pushing it down. Watching it crack in two and scooping up the halves to reveal the preserved jam below.
In more recent years my mother-in-law and daughters picked with me. On the first day of the season, we were always in the fields early–chatting, laughing together, picking. What did we talk about then? Was there a solitary berry picker listening to our conversations? Our hour in the fields was followed by companionable hours in the kitchen, making batch after batch of jam.
Today, I pick alone. I’m content to listen. Still, a haze of melancholy lingers even as the fog lifts, revealing blue skies and a rare glimpse of sun.
Soon, I’ll have picked my fill and will head home. I’ll clean the berries, mash them and stir them as they boil on the stove. The air will hang hot, humid, and thick with the scent of warm strawberries. Later the freshly-filled hot jars will click as they seal. Preserving all the flavors. All the memories.
sun-ripened berries
generations guide my hands
ah, the jam is sweet
©Molly Hogan
Nix the comfort zone 
I’ve read several slices today that included a timeline of sorts…yours is your history of strawberry picking. It made me think of my years of strawberry picking too. I enjoyed your haiku at the end.
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Strawberry picking always makes me nostalgic!
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What a beautiful, lyrical narrative, Molly. It took me into my own (limited, but alive and well) memories of berry picking. Your words reminded me of the forgotten reality that it does become such a quiet and low-key atmosphere, although hands and body feel and show the exertion. Your haiku reflects the sweetness of the ‘jam’ of taste and of memory.
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Thanks, Carol. I think the repetitive motions of picking create a sort of Zen mood.
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Oh, what a wonderful slice today! Your words give the setting and the tone such a delightfully sweet taste of your moments there in the fields and back at home, thinking back over the years and the memories.
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Thanks, Kim! And the jam brings all the memories back each time I open a jar. Win-win!
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I especially like the peaceful tone of your slice. In solitude, you listen in to others. You recall other times with your family. You recall jars filled from long ago. You explain how you will fill your jams next and the read knows you will because as you say, “generations guide my hands”. Thanks for sharing this glimpse into a summer ritual of yours. Lovely slice!
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Thanks, Sally. Strawberry picking and making jam is always meaningful to me.
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You write so beautifully. I felt as if I was with you picking berries. And your jars of preserves look amazing! I am waiting for the blueberries on our bushes to ripen. There are so many but the weather hasn’t helped them to ripen. I love the way you describe the sound of conversation in the field.
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Thank you, Lisa. I love how there’s a sort of avalanche of successive berry ripening through the summer. Blueberries are definitely on the later end for us. For some reason though, I rarely pick blueberries. Maybe I’ll have to rectify that this year.
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Your slice is so real; I can feel the warmth of the sunlight and smell the sweetness in the kitchen. What a wonderful family tradition! I’ll bet they all feel very close to you during this time, even if they are not.
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Thanks, Kim! I definitely share the jam, so they all enjoy the fruits of the labor 🙂
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This slice brought back the memory of scent of the strawberry patch and the feel of the heat on my skin. The taste of a ripe strawberry fresh off the plant cannot be rivaled. A beautiful post.
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Many years the heat of the sun is a big part of berry picking! This year it’s been overcast, misty and often chilly, so the sun didn’t play as big of a role. Happily, the berries managed to grow anyway!
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As I eat my daily toast and strawberry jam (all the way from Maine!), I read this with love and understanding. I’ve never made jam. I do not have this in my soul, my history, but I am still by your side as you do because we write. We write. We connect. We pass traditions to each other over the miles.
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I love having you by my side, Margaret. Thanks for this lovely comment!
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I had forgotten about the wax! Yes!!!
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That wax always fascinated me! Sometimes you could push it down on one side and it would sort of pop up so you could get it out in one piece. That felt like such a success! Other times I had to stab into it with a knife, which was also somehow rewarding. lol
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I remember the wax, too. I love your haiku, Molly. So good.
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Thanks, Tabatha. Somehow I have such a strong visceral memory of that wax. I really don’t know why it made such a big impression 🙂
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Summer in a jar with a lid that clicks. Mmm to all of it. Great haiku!
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There should be a song about the clicking lids on cooling preserves! It’s one of my favorite sounds!
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“generations guide my hands” Love the image that takes me back to an old time kitchen. I’ve never picked strawberries. Blueberries? Yes, but oh so tedious. I’ll stick to crosswords.
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Strawberries are bigger and fill the container faster — you should give it a try!
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[…] an Inkling and friend, sent me some strawberry jam. She posted about strawberry picking on her Slice of Life post this […]
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[…] I wanted to write about making jam today. It’s a subject I’ve visited before (here and here and even once in the Portland Press Herald.) and no doubt will again. So, I pulled up my blog this […]
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