MOUSE! Splat!

Early this month hubby stopped by the house to inquire, "You got time to take a ride with me?"  It seems that the haybine needed a part and it would be three days if we ordered it.  Hubby had found one on-line at a dealer about an hour away.  Surprisingly, he didn't ask me to go get it but instead just asked for company on the trip.  (I think he must be mellowing in his old age!)  It was a lovely June day and I eagerly accepted.


We visited and chatted our way through the beautiful countryside, catching up on things.  It was spring on the farm and that meant that time to just visit was in short supply.  Days tended to start early and end late.


We soon had our part and were retracing our steps on the way home.  As we turned onto a small country road he turned to me and grinned.  "Keep your eyes peeled.  I think I saw a sign in a farmhouse yard that said 'Strawberries'."  It wasn't long before I yelped, "There it is!"  We turned into a shady drive that led to the back of a farmhouse, where we did indeed find strawberries for sale.  After a visit with the farmer, we soon were settled in the truck again with our fresh gallon of strawberries filling the cab with their fragrance. 


They say smell brings back more memories than any other sense. 


In moments I was transported back to our strawberry days on the farm.


Soon after we moved to our present farm Hubby and I decided to plant a strawberry bed.  For the first time we had the space and the location for such a dream come true event.  Off he went to the local farm store, to purchase some plants.  I'm convinced that the lovely, old gentleman who ran the store just laid in wait for unsuspecting husbands to wander in.  "Well, now.  So the missus wants to grow some strawberries."  he smiled helpfully.  "Does she want just a few to eat on or is she planning on making jam and maybe freezing a pint or two?"


Hubby, with visions of strawberry pie, strawberry jam, and neat packages of frozen strawberries dancing in his head, responded. "Oh, she wants a good sized patch so she can do lots of canning and freezing.  Plus, we really like to eat them fresh!"


Smiling, benignly, the old gentleman led Hubby to the crates of strawberry plants and said, "I think four bundles ought to be enough for what you want." 


Hubby never thought to ask, how many plants were in a bundle.


By the time we had finished planting, we had about a quarter of an acre of strawberry plants.  That was about four times as many strawberry plants as we needed.  I'm pretty sure that old gentleman laughed every night about how he put one over on Hubby.


As the plants started producing, it became a nightly routine for the kids and I to gather at the strawberry patch to pick strawberries for a while.  Their reward for helping (not that they really had a choice) was a heaping dish of fresh strawberries and ice cream.  The kids grumbled and complained but like kids do they found ways to make the chore entertaining. 


Along with the luscious, red, plump berries that hung from the clusters of plants were those few that for some reason became covered in a gray fungus-like substance.  These fuzzy, gray berries soon become known as "mice" for their color and way of hiding under the dense foliage. 


The kids would pick along talking, laughing and complaining until they found a gray "mouse" among the plants.  Suddenly the shout of "MOUSE" would ring out over the patch.  At that shout, I soon learned to drop quickly, flat to the ground in the row.  The kid that had found the "mouse" would rise up and pulling their arm back, throw the "mouse" as hard as they could at their sibling!  If it hit, the result was a pinkish gray splat!  It was rather like farm kid paintball! 


There weren't many rules.  1) You had to keep picking good strawberries.  Not just hunting the gray ones. 2) You couldn't aim at mama  (which was why I ducked, so I wouldn't be in the line of fire.)


Rule number 2 didn't hold up very well.  I have lousy aim so the kids were pretty safe.


My son had big hands so he learned to stockpile a few berries in one hand while he kept picking with the other.  Then when his sister would shout out and start firing away, he would return with a bombardment of his own.  The berries would fly thick and fast, with a few overripe ones included for good measure. 


One evening, Hubby couldn't stand it any longer and came wandering up to the garden to see what all the shouting and laughing was about.


With a gleam in my eye, I motioned him to come over and see our "strawberries"! He walked unsuspectingly along admiring the buckets of ripe strawberries we had picked. Then with a shout of "MOUSE" I rose up and pelted him with a gray berry I had been holding on to for a return attack on the kids.  Within seconds the kids had joined in with screams, laughter and flying fuzzy projectiles.  Not to be outdone, Hubby was soon grabbing strawberries and firing right back.  War was on!!


I guess the old gent was right.  Our family did need four bundles of strawberries after all.