Morning Thanks--Yesterday

I swear I got stuck on a bad row. That's all there is to it. My grandson's careening attention makes it a chore for him to keep his nose to the grindstone--and that's okay. But he got smart fast, and hung it up when he realized grandma's pail was filling faster than ours, much faster. Truth be told, our row had all the right colors--emerald leaves, scarlet berries--but the entire row was thin, balding and scraggly as an old man's pate.

Took forever to pick, and I'm not all that good at leaning over for long bouts of time. I'm not looking for another career as a migrant worker. While our basket was slowly being filled, I was dripping sweat after just a few minutes.

Wasn't exactly the strawberry fields the Beatles made famous. We've had rain, lots of it, and the wood chips laid down between the rows were so soggy I figured I'd have a wet pants in a minute if I sat instead of stooped. Let me put it this way: we've had better years out there, lots better years.

The thing is, the emotional heft of a tradition can dispatch annoyances as if they didn't exist. We've done our annual "Strawberry Day" for so long that the grandkids foresee the whole thing with enough clarity to enjoy the trip long before we get to the field. In fact, before we get in the car they're telling me what they're going to eat in the store when we're done--strawberry sundae, strawberry shake, strawberry donuts, strawberry whatever.

So for me to complain about my scraggly row is silly. Yesterday's annual strawberry holiday was a joy. Could have been sweeter, I'd like to suggest, if there were a few more bigger berries; but our "strawberry day" was, thank goodness, a good time. Like all rituals, it revisited yesteryear's strawberry fields and boosted the whole blessed tradition with yet another chapter to remember.

One of the grandkids is already too old. She's got her own job. Yesterday, while we were picking in fact, her brother got a call to interview at a grocery store. He's maybe a week away from being too old himself. We'll still have the little guy for a while, until he too finds his own job. Plain fact of the matter is, for us two old Beatles fans, strawberry fields will not be forever.

But then no one's rituals are, I suppose, are they? 

Besides, traditions get old. They can be wearying. You can get in a rut or pick berries in a crappy row.

It's a huge day, especially for grandma, who comes home overloaded, and then, with the help of her grandkids, fills a cupboard with sauces and jams and muffins; and yesterday, like last year, bakes a soufflé which became a poem while the boys scattered their own significant helpings with brown sugar and a healthy dose of maple syrup.

Soufflé
today,
you say?
Okay.

We'll hear that poem next year again, I'd say--
On berry day.
And that's okay. 

This morning's thanks, despite the sparse row out in the field, is for "yesterday" (yet another Beatles hymn) and all our blessed traditions.

So, now I'll quit, go upstairs, and bless my morning cereal with a handful of fresh strawberries. 

Just like last year.