Finding the Hidden, Beautiful Places

There are so many beautiful places in the world heavily inhabited by humans. There is so much beauty near me, and so much of it that does not involve many other humans, which is all the better.

Today we had our second excursion to a strawberry farm this season. (Our first is here.) This one involved traveling through a small patch of hills, which is unusual for Florida. Up and down we rode the road, a grey snake slithering through green, green, and more green. Past strange signs talking about both Jesus and football. Past hidden driveways with old iron signs dangling, no longer useful. Away from feed stores with eerie mechanical manikins flagging us down. Through a small town very proud of its old buildings—I suppose small towns have to be proud of something, and that is certainly a step up from talk of Jesus and football in the same sentence. Past all these strange human creations, to another human creation, but this one entangling humans and nature.

An older woman with blue eyes and blond hair tinged in gray stood behind a ramshackle looking produce stand. Her voice had the mildest lilt of a southern accent, and the calm, courteous demeanor of the ladies of the deep south. The traditional southern accent is lost here in Florida, except for in the country, and I think even there it is dying out.

“Here to pick?” She asked, and I thought her face very pretty. Maybe it wasn’t pretty, but her kind essence transcended her body. She pointed us to the place where neon orange flags clashed with the phlox at the ends of all the strawberry rows. The phlox were bursting like standstill fireworks, color in every direction they could reach. The lady handed us plastic buckets.

It was a picture-perfect sky dotted with silver lined clouds here and there. The air was pleasantly cool, seeming to hint that there would be no sunburn today. Rows and rows of strawberries were concluded by old pecan trees scattered on the ground like the clouds were scattered in the sky. They looked elderly, with their enormous mossy branches just starting to get a bit of spring growth.

The kids tromped forward. They knew the drill. We meandered down one complete row, snacking, chatting, and smelling the sweet berry scented air. Over ripe berries turned to red mushy paint beneath our feet. Greyish-white sand was still damp from the heavy rain, mixing in with the strawberry mush. I love our beautiful Floridian sand, found everywhere here, even far from the beach.

We completed our task quickly, contrasting unpleasantly with the drive to get there. I bought turnips and sweet potatoes from the pretty older lady with the southern lilt. I ran my fingertips across the smooth turnip skin, absolutely blemish free. The model for all turnips, as only can be found at a ramshackle produce stand at a strawberry farm an hour away from home.

We drove home with the children’s fingers and cheeks painted in strawberry juice.