I have sweet childhood memories of picking strawberries. (Yep, that's me!) Riding in the truck bed out to the fields and squatting until my legs hurt to search for berries. Of course, we always stole a few juicy bites before we lugged our baskets to the scale to pay.
Since Ella’s been born, every summer I throw out the idea of taking her strawberry picking. And every autumn, my desire to visit a farm piques again.
The air in the South finally takes on a cool undertone. Leaves change and float to the ground. And typically, the sun is brilliant, creating this perfect “fall-y feeling.” I start suggesting we go to an apple orchard. It just feels right.
Anytime I mention these activities to Billy, he is incredulous. It turns out asking an immigrant to pay someone else to do recreational farm labor doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to him!
So far, I haven’t gotten Ella out to the fields, but I think next year it’ll happen. I did get everyone to a pumpkin patch, though. We had a blast feeding goats, going on a hayride and posing with crops rather than picking them.
Maybe I can get us back here again next year. After all we have to measure Ella against the "How Tall This Fall?" corn!
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