Once the strawberries ripen, that's it. People will talk, write, pick, eat strawberries. They will make strawberry pies and strawberry jam. They will give strawberries to neighbors and friends. They will drive miles and miles to Ostanek's strawberry fields, somewhere near the middle of nowhere, to crouch down in the hot sun and pick quart after quart of strawberries. Some go once and pick for hours; others go for a little while and return often during the two to three weeks of picking. Some are strawberry freezers and jammers; others just truly love to eat strawberries fresh from the field.
It starts with a buzz in the head. When it's warm, sunny, early to middlin' summer, one starts thinking it's strawberry time. Then, an article appears on the front page of the local paper. Headline: Strawberries ripe for picking; How sweet it is. A call is made to Ostanek's to get the picking report. I called the Monday after the Saturday article. The recording relayed the fact that the field had been "overrun" Sunday, so Monday they closed for ripening. I called Tuesday: still ripening, will open Wednesday. So Wednesday a friend and I started out about 8 a.m., heading for the strawberry fields of Trenary.
In the middle of July you can't beat a morning with a clear sky, temperatures in the low 60s, and a slight breeze off the lake. I wore a flannel shirt over a sleeveless T but had to shed the flannel when we stopped at the gas station in Trenary to pee. Driving through Trenary proper took just a minute a two, despite the thickening traffic (a truck behind us and a van or two in front). All were headed to Ostanek's, which suddenly opened up on our left as we rounded a curve. A dirt drive led us into the vibrant green fields. The right side of the drive was already lined with the cars, trucks, and vans of berry pickers. We found a spot, pulled in, hopped out, adjusted hats, grabbed our bins, headed toward a shack at the end of the road.
Painted on a board propped up by the shack were some rules and hints, such as pick half the row on your left, half on your right; where to find your 6- and 8-quart picking baskets (by the side of the shed); where to return your 6- and 8-quart picking baskets (by the side of the shed); that you'll have to pay extra for overflowing quarts; and I don't remember what else. A boy in a red T-shirt said we could leave our bins in the shed as we each grabbed a 6-quart basket and looked about for a man in a green cap who, we were told, would direct us to a good picking row. After standing behind a man in a green camouflage cap for a minute or two, we were kindly told, "No, you want the guy in the green cap over there."
Aha.
Finally, we were picking.
Picking strawberries is easy. I settled on a down-on-one-knee posture and quickly filled my quarts. It's a two-handed job of lifting a group of berries from the ground, perhaps uncovering them first from a shelter of leaves, then pinching the stem close to the berry with one hand and plucking the berry with the other until the picking hand is full. Drop the berries in the basket. Do it again, moving slowly down the row, picking both sides.
A light hum of conversation drifted across the field. Old friends greeted one another, caught up on recent family events, talked about strawberries. Strangers commented to one another on the goodness of this year's crop. Some people joked about the number of "test" strawberries being eaten. A cell phone went off. A howling poodle, tied up back at a car, in the shade with a bowl of water, was mentioned on and off. The atmosphere was soft and congenial, the air laced with a sweet stickiness, the aroma of sun-warm strawberries.
As I started on a second 6-quart basket, I picked more slowly. It was like settling into cool water on a hot day, just soaking, just drifting, just picking. The poodle's howling waned, perhaps as he received more visitors (he had quieted down immediately when I stopped to visit with him). Conversation came and went like waves, softly lapping. But inevitably the basket filled, and I knew I had more than enough strawberries. I walked out of the field, weaving slightly until I hit the road.
My hands were red and sticky, my forearms slightly itchy, so I rinsed off with water from the tap of a big blue jug. I had paid $16 for my 12 quarts of berries, transferred them to the bin I had brought, returned my baskets to the side of the shed. When my friend finished her picking, we drove the truck up to the shed to load the berries. I said good-bye to the poodle, and we headed home on the the backroads so we could stop at Lily's, a new food store in beautiful downtown Traunik. But that's another story.
Preparing strawberry fields for the future.
