Red Clover and Strawberries

Image from Wikipedia

I can't remember the first time I heard my Daddy tell the story. A friend of his, who apparently didn't get out much, hitched a ride to town one Saturday. Red clover was in bloom all along the roadside. The friend, astounded, looked out and said, "Just look at all those strawberries!"

My Daddy thought it was hilarious, and told the story every time we were riding and saw some red clover outside the car window. We, being terribly smart and contemporary, would roll our eyes at each other, smirking at that lame story we were hearing for the hundredth time.

Image from Wikipedia

Isn't it crazy, and isn't it sad, that by the time we are mature enough to realize the value in some stories, the storyteller is no longer with us? This story was a part of who my Daddy was, and a part of who we all were, part of the glue that bound us together as a family.

We are lonesome animals. We spend all our life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say--and to feel--"Yes, that's the way it is, or at least that's the way I feel it. You're not as alone as you thought".~John Steinbeck

Thirty times, the Earth has traveled around the Sun and the red clover has bloomed since my Daddy has been here to tell the story.
When Hub and I are traveling up and down the road in the springtime, I look for it. Every time I see some red clover blooming, every freaking time, I say, "Just look at all those strawberries!"

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