The middle of May come never come soon enough for us. First, and most important, it marked the end of the school year, and the beginning of freedom. It also meant the strawberries were ripe. There was a strawberry farm just a few miles from where we lived, with acres and acres of strawberries. The owners, having about a two-week window to harvest all the beautiful strawberries, hired everyone who was willing to help pick them, including ratty-haired little younguns. We were paid five cents a quart, and on a good day, we could make two dollars. We were free and needed cash, so we were excited to go and start picking. The excitement lasted until after lunch time. Having coins in our pocket, we went to a nearby country store for lunch. We would get RC Colas, not because they were better but because they were bigger. We could buy a bologna sandwich (bologna was sold by the slice; you could get a thick one if you were willing to pay) and som...
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