The Promise of Spring
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Back in the late1970s, long before Google Maps and smartphones guided our every turn, my father and I set off on a quest: the search for a u-pick strawberry field in the rolling hills of Kentucky. It was in the middle of May, early in the season, and we knew our journey might be fruitless—both literally and figuratively. But we were determined to strategize, to scout the land, and to ensure a gathering of a bountiful plenty, enough to enjoy fresh in the coming weeks and to slice, sugar, and freeze for those bleak winter days when the taste of summer felt like a dream.
Our old truck rumbled along the winding country roads, crunching out a noisy, squeaky greeting as we ambled through the Kentucky hills. The land stretched out in every direction, dressed in various, verdant shades of green. The pastures, hayfields, and wooded slopes blended together like a painter’s perfect palette, the landscape shifting in color as the light changed. Clumps of bright yellow dandelions danced in the breeze along the roadside, their golden faces turned toward the sun. Here and there, patches of violets peeked from the edges of fencerows, their delicate purple blooms like whispers of color against the deep green. Along the embankments, creeping phlox spilled over the edges, a breathtaking carpet of purple, pink, and white, tumbling down in waves as if nature herself had laid out a welcome mat for spring.
Among the trees, the dogwoods stood in full bloom, their white and pink blossoms dotting the forest like scattered clouds drifting through a sea of green. But it was the locust trees that caught my father’s eye. Their branches, just beginning to bud with clusters of creamy blooms, told a story of their own. “See that?” my father said, nodding toward a stand of locusts. “If those are starting to bloom, we might not be out of the woods yet. Could be one last cold snap left in the season.” The thought of an unexpected frost sent a shiver through me, not from the chill but from the fear of what it could mean for our beloved berries. A late freeze could stunt their ripening, turn our hopes to disappointment.
Still, we pressed on, knowing full well we might be ahead of the season. The strawberries wouldn’t be ready for a good picking yet, but this wasn’t just about the harvest—it was about the anticipation, the preparation. We were laying the groundwork for the weeks to come, ensuring we knew where to turn when the fields were bursting with ripe, red fruit. It was a tradition as much as a task, a ritual that bound us to the rhythm of the land and the changing of the seasons.
As we drove past rolling pastures and sleepy farmhouses, we spotted signs—some hand-painted, some barely legible—promising fresh strawberries. But field after field showed only the tiniest hints of green growth, the berries still biding their time beneath the leaves. It would be another couple of weeks before the real picking could begin. Disappointed but undeterred, we turned toward home, knowing that patience was as much a part of farming as the harvest itself.
Then, as we rounded a bend in the road, something caught my eye. In a meadow thick with blooming wildflowers, a little girl wandered through the blossoms, her dress a swirl of color that blended beautifully with the landscape. She moved with an easy grace, plucking a flower here, admiring another there, her small form a picture of innocence and joy. Something about her presence, so natural, so unspoiled, made me pause. She was, in that moment, as sweet as the strawberries we were seeking, a vision of spring’s promise.
The spirit of the day settled into my bones as we made our way back home. The beauty of the Kentucky hills, the songbirds calling from the treetops, the scent of fresh earth and blooming dogwoods—it all wove together into something sacred. We hadn’t found our berries that day, but we had found something just as precious: the joy of the journey, the thrill of the search, and the quiet celebration of a world waking up to another spring. The promise of abundance still lay ahead, waiting just around the bend.