“Mom, that was so much fun,” wasn’t the reaction I expected. I expected something more along the lines of “It was so hot,” or “That made my back hurt,” or “Why can’t we just buy our strawberries at the grocery store like everyone else?” But, “That was so much fun!” wasn’t on my list of expected responses.

My memories of picking strawberries as a child are fond memories, but only because it was something my mom and brother and I did together. I’d be absolutely lying if I said it was fun. Hot? Yes. It was sweat dripping through my hair, sunshine burning my shoulders, hot. (It was the South, remember?) Back-breaking? Yes. Picking those berries in the Carolina sun seemed to take hours. For the record, we picked 8 quarts in 40 minutes today, so how long could it have been, really?

Nonetheless, I recall that from many years ago day fondly. (Did we go more than once? I couldn’t say for sure.) I remember that my little brother ate more than he picked and that he was covered with dirt and strawberry juice. I remember my mom, patient with us that day, encouraging us to choose the ripe ones. I remember how much better they tasted, because we picked them ourselves—my first inkling of the rewards of hard labor.

And so it happened that I decided my boys should try it, too. No matter that it might not be fun, or that today was our hottest day of the summer, or that only two of my three boys really like the sweet taste of strawberries. We would go. Picking berries would be part of their family tapestry, too.

It was a pleasant surprise that they were industrious. That they got right down and started picking with enthusiasm. That not one complained of the heat. I expected a few quarts and too many complaints to continue. Instead, they each asked if they could fill another basket. At $1.50 a quart, who am I to say no? Fill ‘em up boys. We’ll be gorging for days.

And we’ll be back again next year.