The rumor of a strawberry moon spins me backward in time. 13 years old again and it’s strawberry season in the PNW. Every year when school lets out, or rather lets us out, my friends and I are herded onto a school bus and hauled out into the county to pick berries in the sprawling farm fields of Whatcom County. I have yet to taste a berry anywhere to rival these berries. The glacial melt that courses down the Nooksack River from high up on Mt. Baker produces some of the richest alluvial soil in the country.
So for 2 to 3 weeks, our unchosen destiny as adolescents is to soak in the morning dew and dry out crisply in the relentless sun until late afternoon, gathering these gems and earning the shocking rate of 25 cents per carrier, six big boxes. We tan, we ache, we endure. We pray for rain. We eat more than necessary. We laugh and tell each other dumb jokes and share what little we know of the facts of life, most of it grossly inaccurate. At season’s end, we might just collect $100 for next year’s school clothes. It depends on your individual work ethic. Mine is a closely guarded secret.
Now, here in Virginia, the mystery of a strawberry moon calls me outside to survey the darkening sky. Twilight settles, fireflies flicker, birds chirp their lullabies in full throat. But no strawberry moon is to be seen. It’s a clear night; it’s got to be there. “Honey, let’s go find it”. He’s up for the adventure.
Drifting around on dark streets, we look for high treeless points. Finally we head south toward Walmart, and there it is. Fulsome and Creamsicle tinted, peeking at us from behind the trees. My photographer finds the perfect angle, then kludges the picture to obtain this dreamily altered reality.
High Summer. Strawberry moon. A never to be forgotten moment captured in time.
P.S. Every month’s full moon has a name, some less than poetic. “Worm Moon” for instance. But there’s a good reason.
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13Karen Weihe Hulford, Melinda Frazier and 11 others