Twinkling Blue Eyes

He sat at the table, drinking his coffee with heaping spoons of sugar and a generous dash of milk. Wielding a simple knife, he portioned generous slices of bakery bread, pieces of spicy kielbasa, honey ham, and slabs of butter.  All roughly placed on a good-sized lunch plate for us to share. 

"There is just one more thing," he said, throwing open the refrigerator. "Oh no!" he shrieked.

Dad then emerged, smelling like old cheese and pizza. He wasn’t smiling.      

“Hey, it’s not there!”

“What’s not there, Dad?”

“The best part of our lunch… your homemade strawberry jam I was saving.  It’s not here.  Guess I ate it all.”

“Sorry, Dad.  No problem.  Our lunch will be fine without it.”

Dad turned to me. He was very quiet. With a huge chuckle, he patted my back. “Get your car keys out, we're going to the field.”

“Field?”

“Yes, to the strawberry field.  So today we can steam up a pot of yummy strawberry goodness!”

“But Dad, do you even know how to make jam?”

“No, but you do!”

Our eyes met for one very long stare. His blue meets my green. I giggled and Dad chuckled like Santa.

So, to the strawberry fields we went.  Once we began to pick, Dad went to one row and I to another. Grabbing a cardboard tray to fill, I turned to see Dad off. But he had vanished.

Suddenly, I couldn’t wait. The fields were wooing me with their pungent goodness. Such expectation of that huge, first bite into sun-ripened fruit. And of the wonderful makings to come…thoughts of strawberry jam, strawberries with pancakes, strawberry rhubarb pie. And of course, strawberry shortcake with dollops of whipped cream. 

Could life get any better?

An hour went by. My tray was mounded over with the tantalizing red berries, the pungent goodness so tempting, my stomach growling. Looking down at myself, I had become a fruity mess with shoes and pants wet with strawberry mush. My hands were the color of deep crimson. Even my heavy sweat oozed tangy sweetness. I straightened from kneeling and crawling and got up.  Looking at the abundant pick of berries, I stood tall.

It was time to leave.  

But where was Dad?

Scanning one row then another, there was no lanky older fellow with graying hair.  Hmm… my strawberries were now tumbling to and fro, some littering the ground.

Then I spotted Dad and halted. He was sitting on one of those tan plastic chairs and appeared to be dozing.

“Hey Dad, you beat me!” I carefully set my tray down. " See all I picked?  Soon the fridge will be filled with strawberry goodness that will last awhile.”

One blue eye opened, followed by his familiar, gusty laugh. He looked up at me and winked. Both blue eyes were twinkling.

“Hey Dad, I just finished picking.   Can’t wait to get home and sort out these berries. As well as wash up. “

“Yep.”  His grin a crooked line like Charlie Brown.

“Dad, where did you put all your berries?”

Dad nodded and grunted. I stepped closer. Something didn’t seem right. First of all, he had no tray. And he looked a little funny. Now, staring eye to eye, I halted. And really looked.

“Dad, you didn’t!”

‘Yep, I did.” He chuckled and winked.

“But what about …   all those yummy strawberry creations?”

“Ah, you can make them if you like...” he said contentedly as he smacked his red lips and sleepily closed his eyes. His large hands settled awkwardly by his side, an intense shade of burgundy. His full cheeks were crimson colored as well.

But his mouth was the giveaway, the grand I caught you! 

Because Dad’s lips were smeared with a thick ruby red, arched with a fuzzy moustache of sticky red fruit. Now, snoring with ease, he sank into his happy place. Far, far away … where fields of luscious, ripened strawberries, just ready for the eating, were waiting. But for today, Dad had had his fill.   

“…and that’s how I live it.” 

Dear Reader, I have shared a moment with you from many years ago. Recalling that day with heart and presence, to remember and forever relish.