There are certain sights, sounds, smells - that always lead me home. I’m directionally impaired, however, given enough sensory stimulation I could always find my way back to where I belong; any Lutheran church, the sound of loons or doves, the taste of apples with cinnamon, and the smell of fresh picked strawberries, all of these things remind me of home and in an instant I am happily swatting away mosquitos and wishing summer would never end.

My great aunt had a farm when I was younger, and our family managed to visit it every year around harvest time. With gallon pails packed into the back of our suburban we would travel over 45 miles of gravel roads - disturbing little stones along the way that would ping ping ping their annoyance at being unearthed against the metal of the car. Our windows would be open because my mother insisted that that is what was meant by “air conditioning” and my brothers and I would have settled into our daily game of “don’t look at me”. When our car finally reached its’ destination we would pile out of the car - taking a pail with us and walk to the end of the little green rows. Kneeling down we would start to pick strawberries - competing as usual to see who could fill up the most pails. We knew what to look for and our fingers greedily searched and plucked.

The rows of strawberries seemed to stretch on forever. We hardly noticed. Half way into our race - we would fall prey to the temptation that lay before us. The plops of the berries hitting the pail would stagger…our motions would slow and soft little groans would erupt from the patches of green and red. One berry for the bucket. One berry for us. One berry for the bucket. Two berries for us. Even though we paid by the bucket no one stopped us. The berries would just … melt in our mouths. There was no need for sugar. There was no need for cream or shortbread or even vanilla icecream, even though we knew that the berries we picked would later meet any of those fates. Our fingers would slowly turn red - and the juice from the berries would run down our chins onto our t-shirts - a dead give a way to our theft. My brothers and I would stuff our faces full of berries - and I remember thinking then - even though the mosquitos were biting every inch of our bodies in search for the blood sweetened by those berries, that this was the best place on earth.

I missed the farmer’s market today - but I managed to take a quick drive to the fruit stands near our home in search for berries. It took two stands to find them - but when I did I yelped. Seriously. The strawberries aren’t as sweet as they were in my great aunt’s strawberry farm - but they still hold the same smell - and evoke the same memories. I washed a big bowl full of strawberries - plucking off their little green caps - and cut them in half. I ate until I felt that feeling in my stomach - the same one I felt when I was picking them with my brothers on the farm. I ate them with my fingers, too, because - well - it’s tradition.

And I was home.

I need to go to bed, soon. But a quick thanks for the great weekend. I started a bit late this weekend and I always feel like maybe you’ll forget me or not wait for me… lol. Then I get 4 hour calls that tell me that I haven’t been forgotten at all - so thank you!

I did manage to tell a few people about their surprises - which is something very special just for them - but I wanted to at least put out a little teaser about it and let the rest of you know that it is possible for you to be admitted into this special club, too! Keep an eye on those emails, guys… I still have a few more to send out!

I have so much more to write about … I feel - rejuvenated in a way - stimulated (definitely) and creative… so this week (provided I finish my dreadful outlines) should have some great stories/posts or whatever else I can squeeze out of my head/heart/toes.

I’m on alert for the morning. Give me a call… chances are I’ll answer and tempt you with nice sweet strawberry juice you can lick off my fingers, toes, and other body surfaces… who knows? Maybe the taste, scent, and feel of a sticky CeCe will transport you someplace friendly and familiar, too!