What's Really in This Jam?

You might spread this strawberry jam on your toast and eat it without hardly registering the complex flavors of the organic berries picked in a drizzling June rain, the air chilly on the edge of cold, and the mingling of grief and comfort. These berries were cooked into jam straight from the garden on a grey June day.

Last Saturday started with the kids and I leaving the farm set for an adventure (well at least I was and the kids had no choice). We drove due south trying to find a road crossing the 20 mile long Marsh Lake and Preserve. We drove into the preserve where the Minimum Maintenance: Travel at Your Own Risk road gave way to a grass track- “hang on kids!�? I yelled as I floored the minivan through some mud spots. It occurs to me that I don’t have my cell phone. The egrets and herons rise up looking like Pterodactyls in a world before time. When I can’t drive any further I get out of the van, climb the rise that’s blocking our way, and see miles of marshy land and lake. Time to turn around. I’m so glad I’m not a pioneer trying to cross this wet land with oxen and wagon. We drive around Marsh Lake on the county highways and make our way to Brad and Kristi’s Coyote Grange to U-pick organic strawberries.

While the kids ran wild, Kristi and I picked berries side by side. She’s a connoisseur of berries like a sommelier is a connoisseur of wine. She brought me different varieties to taste- I liked each one better than the last. Kristi and I have a common bond—we’ve both lost a sweet little lovey— our darling daughters Nora and Milly Rose. Over the berry picking, pausing once in a while to look into each other’s eyes, we talked about our love, loss, trauma, and continuing passages to… what (?). The feelings of grief and comfort passed through our fingers and into these berries. Our combined five children play around us—dripping with strawberry juice as they eat their weight in berries. Alma is hanging close by to hear the retelling of losing her sister (she was only 3.5 when Milly died).

Hungry, we left Coyote Grange and headed to Appleton for lunch. At the café on mainstreet we met a woman without a home-- camping in the city park and visiting her boyfriend in the prison. She’d found a job in town, but couldn’t see how she would get a roof over her head. She’d come in the cafe from the cold drizzle and could only afford a cup of coffee. “I’m not much for eating anyway…�? We bought her some lunch and were back on our way. Halfway home we pulled into the Drywood Church’s gravel parking lot and all took a ½ hour nap. It was gloriously refreshing.

So maybe if you’re lucky enough to get some of this jam (we picked 11 gallons of strawberries so don’t be surprised if you do) you’ll now taste all the loveliness and heartache of a day in and around Big Stone County