Summer Fresh

The most interesting houses we’ll ever know are usually the haunted ones.

As a small boy, Joe discovered that one of the best parts of summer was the food, and especially fresh berries. He would put berries on everything - cereal, sandwiches, even mac and cheese. He would sit on the balcony of his family’s tiny apartment on the hottest days, feeling the breeze and the berries cooling him.

And the very best berries were the strawberries that grew in the yard of an old house a few blocks down the road. He didn’t know if it was the soil, the water, the air, the particular bees that pollinated them, but they were always the sweetest, juiciest, plumpest strawberries. He couldn’t get enough of them. The problem was that they were 20 feet from an old decaying farmhouse inhabited by an old man and his wife who stayed indoors and didn’t socialize with anyone. Except possibly some ghosts. According to the gossip from the other kids in town, anyway.

So Joe would linger on the sidewalk, watching the curtained windows for signs of movement before carefully crawling through the hedges and into the yard. It always took a few days for him to build up the courage before a visit, even though nothing ever happened while he was helping himself to the neighbors’ garden. The windows on the second floor of the house felt like eyes watching him, and the front door was a mouth that could open at any time to inhale him or to scream at him.

Once in the yard, he’d frantically pocket as many strawberries as he could, resisting the urge to look up at the house where he was sure a ghost was appearing, and then he’d run back to his own yard as fast as he could. Perhaps the adrenaline and the sense of naughtiness made them taste sweeter still.

One day, as he rose to his feet to flee the garden with his prize, he found himself face-to-face with an old woman. He wanted to run but she smiled at him and he froze. She said, “These are the descendants of the strawberry plants my son used to love to eat many years ago. I’m glad you enjoy them so much, but why do you run away?”

Joe whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the woman replied. “It does my heart good to see you here. What’s your name?”

“Joe.”

“I’m Mrs. Williams. My son’s name was Philip.” She looked away for a moment then wiped her hands on her frilly blue apron and smiled again. “I have a fresh pie. Would you like some?”

When Joe nodded, she said, “Come sit on the porch and I’ll bring you a plate.”

He looked up at the house nervously. She chuckled and said, “Don’t worry. The ghosts won’t hurt anyone.”

They ate pie together on comfortable chairs side by side and Mrs. Williams told stories about her son and the games he would play in the yard. She told him about how her parents used to farm all over this neighborhood before it was turned into apartment buildings and stores. This house and patch of land was all that was left of her family. Joe asked her if he could come visit her again and she told him to come whenever he wanted.

At home, he shared the strawberries with his parents and younger sister and told them the house wasn’t really haunted after all. There’s just a lot of memories there. And he began visiting regularly and bringing other kids too. The ghosts faded as the laughter and life increased.

And when he grew up and bought his own house, Joe dug out a large space for a garden full of strawberries and also tomatoes and carrots and lettuce and other delicious things. And he posted a sign beside it with the words “Free food for all. Please help yourself.”