THE QUIET COURAGE OF STOOP LABOR — THE SUMMER OF ’83
I love strawberries. For a few years we grew a row or two in our garden. The birds enjoyed them with us. This did not prepare me to find myself, one hot July day, in a thirty acre strawberry field on the east side of Watsonville – preparing to pick berries. My wife Pat and I (like, I suspect, many of you) have often talked through the years about “picking our own” – responding to one of those enticing advertisements that invite us to come out and roam through fields or orchards at harvest time for peaches, berries, pears or what have you. In this instance, we were still on a short vacation and it gave us a chance to go to the fields. It seemed like a good idea to pick a few crates so Pat could make some of her famous strawberry jam. We ended up with a slim two: Picking…
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