The Rural Voice, 2002-07, Page 6PRICE, SERVICE
& SATISFACTION
1998 GMC SONOMA CLUB CAB
3 door, in black. V6. auto. air, PW,
PL. T/C, keyless. power mirrors,
tonneau cover. aluminum wheels.
tinted glass. CD. cassette. mint,
low kms. 514,900
1998 GMC 1500 4 X 4 SLE MODEL
Black. fibreglass tonneau. aluminum
wheels, V8. auto. air, buckets,
loaded. low kms.,
sharp truck. 519,900
1999 DODGE 2500 QUAD CAB
Auto, SLT model, long box. chrome
wheels. loaded. only 142.000 kms.
and in great shape. Ready to work
and play. 531,900
2001 DODGE RAM QUAD CAB
Short box, sport model. V8. auto, tube
boards, chrome wheels, deflector.
liner, a black beauty, CD, power seat,
loaded, 56,000 kms. 529,900
HANOVER CHRYSLER
DODGE JEEP
664 -10th St.,
Hanover
1-866-788-8886
A
CHRYSLER
DodEPI
Jeep
Phone: (519) 364-3570
2 THE RURAL VOICE
Carol Riemer
A strawberrg Sundag
Carol Riemer
is a freelance
writer who
lives with her
husband and
two
children near
Grand
Valley,
Ontario.
As long as I can remember, I have
always looked forward to strawberry
season. Last year, on a quiet Sunday
morning, I remember waking to the
reassuring sound of our neighbour's
old tractor, as it gently faded into the
distance, leaving a chorus of hungry
robins to scour our newly cut lawn.
Overhead, tree swallows, iridescent
in the dappled sunlight, were
gracefully gliding through the air,
gathering breakfast for their young.
Roused from a deep sleep, I
stumbled, bleary-eyed, to the
window. Opening it a little wider, I
couldn't help but notice the sweet
scent of strawberries float by on a
soft summer breeze. After a quick sip
of coffee, I decided to make breakfast.
For some, this may be a simple
task, but for others, it's a recipe for
disaster. Thinking about strawberries,
I forgot the toast, the smoke alarm
went off, and before I knew it, I had
unintentionally sounded reveille. One
by one, the family filed in, and soon,
the kitchen was filled with a group of
irritable late sleepers. I tried to
explain that, despite all the com-
motion, there was no need to panic.
"I was thinking about
strawberries," I confessed, with some
embarrassment.
Their response came as a loud
collective groan.
Trying to muster a smile, I
suggested, "Perhaps, we could visit
the farm down the road and pick
some strawberries this afternoon."
The groan grew louder still.
Undeterred, I launched into a story
about how I used to pick strawberries
with my Dad, when I was a kid.
When that didn't work, I resorted to
sentiment of a more personal nature.
"Remember when you were little,
and we took you strawberry
picking?" I asked the kids, hoping to
rekindle some fond memories of their
fleeting childhood. "Remember the
time we went to the Strawberry Fest-
ival, and you rode a pony, and ate two
helpings of strawberry shortcake?"
"It was a white pony," my
daughter recalled, momentarily
overtaken by the image.
That's right, I thought to myself,
remember the pony, and forget the
strawberries. Forget what a great
team we made, with me picking
strawberries and you sampling them.
Forget all the good times we had,
standing in the middle of the field,
holding up baskets of strawberries
and posing for those pictures your
father took for our family album.
"1 remember the antique cars they
had that day," my son added, with a
yawn. "The running boards were kind
of neat." My husband silently nodded
in agreement, and then went back to
reading his paper.
"What about the strawberries?" I
heard myself muttering aloud. "What
about that exquisite strawberry flan 1
made, the luscious homemade jam,
and all those berries I individually
froze for the winter?"
It took a few more trips down
memory lane, but finally, I managed
to coerce the family into picking
strawberries at a nearby farm. A short
tractor ride took us out to the patch,
where, after a slow start, the
competitive spirit took over, and the
baskets began to fill up.
Back home again, the kitchen was
filled with enough strawberries to
keep me busy for days. The kids
quietly disappeared into cyberspace
and my husband retreated to the deck
to finish reading his paper. I sat down
at the kitchen table to contemplate the
error of my ways, when suddenly, my
son reappeared, poking his head
around the corner.
"What's for dinner?" he asked,
with that familiar, hungry look.
"I thought we might barbeque
something," I answered,
absentmindedly.
"Okay," he agreed, "as long as
you don't forget the strawberries for
dessert."
"Oh, sure," I responded, with a
chuckle. "Who could forget the
strawberries?"0