There were times in my long working life
as a tea lady when it was financially imperative that I turn my hand to other
endeavours, such as in the late spring of 1983.
My work as a tea lady had temporarily dried up and my savings were too
meagre to live off. But I was fortunate enough to get a job as a picker on a
strawberry farm located on the outskirts
of Wattlebird.The pay was, I admit, low at $4.50 per hour,but often we were given free if slightly spoiled fruit and the owners
of the farm and other pickers were good people with whom I became fast friends. Along with the other pickers, I started picking at six in the morning before the heat of
day warmed the fruit and it became too soft to pick.
We picked, bent over double with a wooden
tray into which we’d place the ripe strawberries. I remember well, the dark red
and greens of the strawberry plants and their little daisy-like flowers. And of course, how could I ever forget the
aromatic smell of strawberries and having red strawberry
stained fingers. And it seemed the sky
was always an unbroken blue, with the warmth of the sun on our bare arms as we picked along the rows, occasionally stopping to stretch our backs and
have a chat or maybe squint into the sun and survey the Karri forest which
surrounded the five-acre farm. We would pick for three hours, then break in
the heat of the day and return in the
evening to pick for another three hours.
In the cool of
the evening, I would walk the short distance to my home in the forest, a small
cottage with a wood stove on which I made batches of strawberry jam and in its
oven, baked strawberry cakes. As I walked to my cottage, a gentle breeze blew
and the last rays of sunlight glimmered through the trees while small birds twittered.Once home, I’d make myself a pot
of tea and cut a piece of strawberry cake to eat. Without turning on any lights,I’d sit on the back step of my cottage, sipping
tea and eating cake while watching the night sky which was a vast dome of inky
blue strewn with white stars.
