The Large Joy of Small Boys
What do you do on a warm day in early June when you’re babysitting a 6 year old?
Pick strawberries!
I grabbed the sunscreen, water, snacks, a hat for each of us and off I went with my nephew Andy to a farm a few miles outside of town to pick our own berries. After some very serious conversation on exactly which row was the most likely to yeild the best harvest, we started picking.
Soon both of us were stained pink on fingers and knees by these rich, ripe berries. From time to time Andy would peek into my basket and notice somberly how many more were in my basket then his, so I would quietly pour a few handsfull into his basket. We tried to see who could find the biggest and who could find the smallets, most perfect berry, and duly admired each others discoveries.These are the sweetest variety I’ve ever tasted, and we couldn’t resist popping them, still warm and tasting like sunshine, into our mouths as we picked.
Across the farm road there was a pond 
with some very vocal bullfrogs which we enjoyed listening to, and a horse farm just beyond that, whose residents put in an occasional appearance at the fence. Red-wing blackbirds were everywhere and from the tree at the edge of the road we were entertained by the most vocal mocking bird with the largest repertoire I have ever heard.
Of course at age 6, the delights of finding the perfect berry ran out well before I had all I wanted for jam, but he offered no complaints. When he got tired of picking Andy sat down happily between the rows, munching the snack I brought him and holding forth on the lemonade stand he wants to set up on his street this summer and the different animals he saw at the zoo on his last trip.
The farmer came by just as we were done and gave us a ride back to the barn on the tail gate of his pick-up truck: swinging our legs and singing “I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you for all my life” as we bumped down the road and hung on to the.jpg)
strawberry baskets.
When we got back I got out the collander and showed him how to use the sprayer attached to the sink. He thought it was so much fun that he washed them all for me. Sweet deal. Tomorrow I’ll bake fresh bread, and that’s probably what I’ll have for lunch: strawberries and bread.
After lunch we sat at the computer and watched roller coaster videos from parks all over the country for almost an hour, with time out for me to get my tape measure and determine that he is (in his sneakers) 49" tall! Dude- he can ride the Vortex at King’s Island! High Fives all around.
It was a lovely day, and much improved by the company of a sweet and clever little blond boy, as most days would be. I had forgotten how lovely it is to spend time with a happy little boy. I am sadly short on them in my life right now, what with mine about to turn 21 and all. So it’s good that I can borrow my sister’s from time to time.
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.
BK (Before Kids), I went with a good friend and her two sons, age 4 1/2 and 15 months, to pick strawberries. They were from Switzerland, so it was a new experience for them. I’ll have to say, Rochester, NY didn’t have many redeeming qualities, but strawberries were one of the few. We settled into our rows and Elisabeth set little Lukas on his diapered tush to play in the dirt. He saw one of those bright red pieces of sunshine hanging off that green plant, and it was all over. Like a normal baby, he had to put it in his mouth. We laughed as we watched his eyes brighten and the juice drip all down the front of his Osh Kosh overalls. He looked satisfied for only a second, then spied another red berry and reached for it. Berry after berry, one in each hand, one bite in each before he’d remember one was in the other hand and he’d go for that one, dropping the first.
I knew I’d have kids that day. What a joy he was to watch.
I can still taste those berries. The ones we picked that day were the best ones I’ve ever had.