Commuting to Work

Prior to this summer I have never had a job where the drive in was more than 5 or 10 minutes depending on traffic. Transferring locations this summer meant a commute for the first time in my life. However, it quickly became a non-issue since it’s only 20 to 30 minutes and I was pleasantly surprised to find it a good way to relax and decompress instead of the chore I thought it would turn out to be.

I take the back roads to work and it takes me through some of the most picturesque countryside. The drive takes me past rolling fields of corn, soy, sorghum, and the occasional pasture of horses or cattle. Being so close to the country was one of the attractions to my University town. I liked being in a city, but close to the wide-open spaces and farms I find familiar and comforting.

After a two-week hiatus from work to complete the research on my thesis and get some solid writing under my belt the thought of returning to work was anything but comforting. I find it difficult to switch gears and get my head out of my thesis and into the necessary mode for the job. The two are so completely unrelated that the transition can be a bit jarring, especially after having been away for close to 3 weeks when all is said and done. So I wasn’t exactly in the best of moods driving in earlier this week. It was hot, humid and the air conditioning in my car had decided to crap out on me earlier this spring, so driving with the windows down was a necessity not an option. Even the relatively peaceful drive in wasn’t enough to change my mood. That is until I drove past one particular farm.

Nestled between a bush and in innocuous looking field of weeds and some indistinguishable green vegetation sat a small white shack and several cars. It wasn’t until I drove past the field that I realized what it was. The heavy scent of ripe strawberries in the warm sun wafted through my open windows. Memories of home and the farm flooded my mind. The memory of picking strawberries with my Mother and brothers in the early summer as a kid, bent over the plants in the beating sun and starring down endless rows of fruit willing my carrier of quart boxes to be filled so we could go home. The hours spent cleaning the hulls from the fruit and watching as my mother turned that fruit into jam, the heat of the stove and the scent of the pureed fruit boiling from her biggest pot filling our kitchen and house. The neat rows of jars filled with freshly made scarlet red strawberry jam lining the kitchen counter to cool.

Driving past that strawberry patch in the late afternoon sun I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes for a brief moment to savor the memories that only that scent can bring. It was a completely unexpected experience and caught me off guard. I had driven past this field for weeks without realizing what it was until it blindsided me. The scent only lingered for a moment before I had driven past the strawberry patch and the normal scent of the country returned. It made me homesick for the farm and my family, but it also brought a smile to my face.

While my school friends spent their summer days watching tv, playing video games, swimming or going to camp I was working side by side with my family on the farm. At the time my feelings towards it wavered on abject hate or patient tolerance of the work. As an adult I appreciate the lessons I learned, the work ethic I gained and the memories I created with my brother’s that no one else can fully understand except for them. I thought of all these things and where we all are now with a smile on my face for the rest of my commute.

Later on that night I came home and made myself a peanut butter and stawberry jam sandwich. There is nothing like the taste of my mother's jam and knowing the effort that goes into making it, makes it taste that much sweeter.