It is late, and I still have strawberries to freeze. I picked strawberries this morning with my daughter and her two sons. One a baby in her arms, and the other son a toddler who helped me fill my pail. Well, perhaps “helping” and “filling” are not completely true. His red-stained cheeks and shirt told a tale of more eating and tasting than successful pail filling. I did not tell my grandson, as we chattered along the path and picked and tasted the wonderful red fruit, that my mother had loved strawberries. Had picked them with her Arthur every year, and put them into her freezer so that loved ones who came could enjoy something strawberry-ish. It was something that Lydia and Arthur had done since the days of their courting, and every year since. They loved to pick them.
I did not tell my grandson this, as we sang about strawberries, and laughed and talked as we picked.
There are so many ways to remember.