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

Heading to the peak of the year. Don’t blink! You might miss a hue. Those colors race by at breakneck speed.