Berries in a plastic box
Time was, the start of summer was marked in red. Berry red. The colour of fresh strawberries, brought home from the nearest U-Pick. Best undertaken in early morning while the fields were still damp from dew, and the samples (you had to sample, it was part of the package) were wet and cool. By the time you had a couple of baskets beside you, the sun was getting too high for safety, and it was time to find a kitchen with a hot oven. Biscuits. Fresh cream.
Now, in the city, we bring home larger fruit, but it comes packaged in plastic, and the sampling is not tolerated. Pay and pray for sweetness. Fresh cream has morphed into something in a spray can, with an ingredient list that recalls the rigours of an undergrad chemistry lab. Still tastes good, but our grandparents would hardly tag this as progress.
Today, I learned that the broken step on the pool ladder will remain that way. Not made any more, and the cost of something new and molded in plastic left me panting for the good old days. I wonder if a local antique emporium has a neglected ladder in a back corner.
Part of my errand list involved giving away some oversize boxes of books. There’s a store down the way, and the two old fellas were happy to accept my gift. Told me they liked “English or French”; surely, a nod to my status as an audible minority member. And now I’m waiting for a call, in case any of the kids require haulage. This is moving weekend in the city, and although none of mine are changing address, there’s supposed to be some furniture that didn’t make it on board the last time around. The welcome has been worn out at their friends’ apartment.
