THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
LAST STRAWBERRIES OF AUTUMN
1941
Amoz and Tobs' lives almost centered on strawberries, because every year
their families spent two months in the hills of San Pedro, in the northern
fringes of California.
The boys, age ten, looked forward to these trips, which meant freedom from
books, teachers, the rigors of homework, and other rituals. It was the one
time of year when they could flaunt their boyhood to the skies and stars,
unbound by the restrictions that otherwise held them.
They were all housed in a converted barn that was solitary, defiant-like
against the horizon, and as if by magic, had been planted in the field no
more than three acres big.
The strawberries were attended to and owned by an old man who lived in a
shack about half a mile from the barn house. He was reported to have been
born in that barn and to have grown up there as well. Now he was alone.
His life was around the strawberries. They were his children. They sustained
him.
But he looked forward every year to seeing the families of Amoz and Tob.
When the boys came, he would equip them with oversized straw hats and overalls,
making them look like scarecrows. The boys loved the outfits.
The old man would expound wisdom on the strawberry fruit: why one fruit
was shaped in a particular fashion, why no two fruits were exactly alike,
why there were seedlike things outside the red skin, which ones were sweet,
which ones to let go.
The boys spent their time eating (of course) and picking (they learned a
certain way of picking each fruit), discovering the soil consistencies and
insects that invariably found their way to the tiny hands of the boys. They
also studied the different parts of the fruit, and the effects of the sun
and rain upon the fruit.
Very early on they learned the art of patience.
So the vacation came and went. The parents of Amoz and Tob treasured those
moments, seeing their boys appreciate not only the beauty of a particular
fruit but also the discrete caring and sharing that grew between the boys-and
between them and Mr. Cruickshanks, The "Strawberry Man," as he
came to be addressed.
1947
The war seemed to have left few changes in the lives of Amoz and Tob . .
. until recently-when Amoz's family abruptly decided to move to Peebles,
in Scotland, after Amoz's father received a new position. Reluctantly, Amoz
and Tob parted. Amoz was also crestfallen about having to leave his friend
Mr. Cruickshanks.
"When will I see our strawberries again?" Amoz asked with a claim
of ownership, of sorts.
"But you will." These were the last words Amoz heard from Mr.
Cruickshanks.
Tob, meanwhile, was drawn closer and closer to the strawberry field, so
much so that one day Mr. Cruickshanks asked him whether he would take over
the farm. (Mr. Cruickshanks was near eighty.)
With little hesitation, Tob accepted, foregoing entry to college.
He thought of Amoz. Suddenly the one person who shared the strawberries
with him was gone. There was no longer someone to examine the details of
each fruit with, no one to argue with.
Although devoted to Mr. Cruickshanks and having pledged to care for the
farm from now on, Tob realized he was missing the many exciting times and
silly laughter he experienced when Amoz was around. Life was going to be
different now.
Sometimes Tob wondered about the wisdom of his decision to stay in the strawberry
field. Was there a future?
1957
Amoz's life in Scotland proceeded slowly, calmly as a freighter's maiden
voyage. He often thought of the summers at the strawberry farm with Tob
and Mr. Cruikshanks. While reminiscing, he decided one day to write to Tob.
Some months later, in late autumn, a letter postmarked from Scottsdale arrived.
It bore the handwriting of Tob.
Dear Amoz:
I was too overcome with emotion and joy. I could not respond sooner. It
has been a long, long time, has it not?
I am glad all goes well with you. I can see the colors of autumn all around
you over there.
All these years I wondered whatever happened to you. I now can not chastise
myself
enough for this immensely long silence. I had this notion that one day we
would be again like two ten year olds hovering over the strawberries. I
am afraid I have unhappy news for you.
After I took over the farm from Mr. Cruikshanks (he died five years ago),
I tried to manage it the best I could. I even used new machinery and new
fertilizers with fancy technical names.
Remember how our Mr. Strawberry Man taught us to care for the fruits? I
thought I learned everything there was to know.
Alas, this was not going to be. As each year came, the harvest became less
and less. I no longer could continue. So I gave up and sold it to a corporation.
I could not bear to stay on this sacred earth all three of us had come to
love. Consequently, I moved here to Arizona two months ago.
Since then I have been thinking about the whole endeavor. I realized I was
just going through the motions each day, letting the strawberries grow on
their own. After all, they had a new kind of nourishment. They did not need
me . . . or so I thought.
I lost track of time-time to check the details we used to do daily with
each plant. I began to miss the changing shades and shapes of each fruit.
Do you remember you used to test me each morning about which particular
fruit needed watering? And I would proudly say "Section A, row 1."
I guess with you out there and Mr. Cruikshanks gone, I forgot what caring
means. There was no more heart in the field.
The strawberries of autumn, the last of them, Amoz, are gone.
One day when I find my heart again, I may find another strawberry field.
I know you, too, are saddened by this news.
Someday, perhaps, what do you say, Amoz?
Tob
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