Many years ago I walked,

Holding to my mamaw’s hand,

We traipsed across the mountain,

Over onto company land.

Of course the company had abandoned it,

Once the mines played out,

And in that worn out soil,

Only stunted pines and broom sedge sprout.

But the thing that drew us there,

In a field so full of gloom,

Was at this time of year,

Wild strawberries were in bloom.

I didn’t know that we were poor,

I never gave it a thought,

Make the most of what you have,

Was just what I’d been taught.

Our farm and cellar kept us fed,

And the few things we couldn’t grow,

We found them in the woods,

Mamaw taught us where to go.

In poor soil ‘neath the oaks,

The huckleberries grew.

Along with the mountain tea,

We chewed it’s leaves and berries too.

But by the end of May,

On this ridge near pines and sedge,

The best wild strawberries grew,

Along a sandstone ledge.

We dropped them in Mamaw’s bucket,

At least the ones we didn’t eat,

We surely couldn’t help ourselves,

They tasted oh so sweet.

And with the bucket filled,

With all the berries we could find,

We’d head homeward once again,

With our backs turned to the mines.

Now, today as I was walking,

Through my farm’s poorest field,

And thinking to myself,

How some lime might help the yield.

I wandered out along the thicket,

And what did I chance to see?

A last late season strawberry,

It seemed it had been placed there just for me.

It had just reached perfection,

The taste took me back nigh fifty years,

 I closed my eyes in memory,

And to help blink back the tears.

That last strawberry of the season,

Spoke a wondrous tale to me,

About a boy who had natures riches,

Though he was poor as poor could be.