Wild Strawberries

Bramblings
By Becky Nelson
I found the first wild strawberry on the edge of the lawn last week. The tiny little treasure packed a punch of flavor, with the burst of strawberry goodness signaling the end of spring and the true beginning of summer to me. Memories also flooded my mind when I ate the tasty morsel.

I grew up on the farm. This parcel of land was actually hacked out of wild woodland by my ancestor, William Osgood and his family. The family traditions of letting the land work for you was passed down through seven generations, and I hope I can pass some of these tidbits of history and respect for the land to my grandkids. My grandmother was very important in my life. A widow with four young children, she had some grit and determination in holding the land together and making a living, though meager, from this very soil. She weathered the Great Depression, the Great Hurricane of 1938, and economic and social turmoil during wars and recessions and social change and myriad other changes.

What never seemed to change were the seasons. My siblings and I spent a lot of time with Grammy at the farm and she taught us a lot about staying firm and steady in the winds of change. What never seemed to change were the seasons. Summer was time for garden vegetables and soil working and haymaking and blueberry, elderberry and raspberry picking and the subsequent freezing and jam making. Early fall was for blackberry picking and wood cutting and putting the final touches on chores to make the winter more bearable. Winter was for tending the cattle in the warm barn where milking by hand was much more pleasant cuddled up to the flank of a toasty cow than it was in the summer when everyone was hot and uncomfortable. Frozen water troughs and heaps of snow were a challenge, but the warm cup of tea with cookies every afternoon when the chores were done were worth the effort.

Spring was always a time for hope and excitement. Though black fly bites were something to contend with when fixing fences and working up the soil for gardens, there was always the hope of finding the first wild strawberry. It was a contest of sorts with us kids, watching the blossoms and waiting for that little green nub of a berry to turn pink and then the ruby red of ripeness. Where there is hope, there were always chores. Some of the hayfields were pretty run out when I was a youngster, which was fertile soil for wild strawberries. We would gather big pots and bowls and head off to Grammy’s best picking spots. My mother would always help, and we would spend hours in the early summer sun with the smell of the earth rising in the heat through the old grass as we found the little berries. Grammy would grumble and cuss when one of us inadvertently sat on or stepped on good berries. She was a tough old bird, and we knew enough not to pick too close to where she was picking, but I sat at her knee and learned that life wasn’t easy and you needed to grab opportunity…and berries…when they were presented. There would be shouts of joy when we kids found a “good” patch with bigger berries or loads of redness. It was still work, and it was still hard, but the reward was the potential for a big batch of jam to be enjoyed on toast and muffins or a fresh-churned batch of ice cream with our own cream from the milk we stripped from our fat and happy cows with little dots of fresh strawberries in the succulent mix.

The Strawberry Moon recently shone in fullness this week, probably called such by the indigenous people in the region who also found these hiding patches of strawberry goodness to supplement their spring meals. Just to know that these wild treasures hide in your yard, in run out hayfields around the region and along the sides of walkways unnoticed and unappreciated saddens me a bit. I must go grab my grandkids and find a patch…

Becky Nelson is owner of Beaver Pond Farm in Newport, eighth generation in a multi-generational farm that was established in 1780. She can be reached at [email protected].