The Strawberry Man

I grew up thinking that everyone had a "strawberry man." It was a late spring and summer phenomenon in the neighborhood where I grew up. A large flatbed truck would appear stacked with crates of strawberries. Young men with feet dangling rode at the rear, ready to hop into action when the truck stopped. Dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, one guy would hop off and hoist a crate to his shoulder. Sometimes you heard him before you saw him, his distinctive cry a call to kids and housewives up and down the street. "Str-a-w-berries," he would stretch out the first call and then punctuate it with a quick "STRAWBERRIES!" Every child old enough to walk could mimic his chant.
Recently, by way of facebook, I had the opportunity to reconnect with people who grew up in my same neighborhood. I was surprised to see an entire string of conversations dedicated to the memories the "strawberry man" evoked. It was then I remembered a poem I had written about this man. Childhood memories are the best!

The Strawberry Man

Oh, how I remember
The strawberry man
With muscles that rippled
And a sweaty brown tan
As sure as the jonquils
Heralded spring
Likewise this man
And the song
That he'd sing
As children we'd mimic
His strawberry call
"Str-a-w-b-e-r-r-i-e-s, STRAWBERRIES!
That said it all.
The aroma would reach us
And in a Pied Piper way
We'd follow along
For part of the day
He didn't ring doorbells
In order to meet
The gingham-dressed housewives
Who lived on our street
The windows were open
To let in fresh air
Upon hearing his call
(If there was money to spare)
They'd step out on the porch
And select from his crate,
The reddest and ripest
Were sure to taste great.
With Momma's baked shortcake
And whipping cream too
The rest of the day
Would be hard to get through.
With a hoist of his crate
And a chuck of my chin
He was out on the street
And at it again
Melodically chanting
His seasonal call,
"Str-a-w-b-e-r-r-i-e-s, STRAWBERRIES!"
That said it all.