Strawberry Fields Forever

Not too far from our home halfway between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania was an old boy scout camp with several large open fields and a dam on Indian Creek. Camp Wildwood was abandoned in about 1949 and became a place for the public to camp. The first story I remember was about the nude red head standing in the doorway of a small camper trailer. It was quite a shock for my brother and me who rode by on our bicycles.

Many memories were with my parents Carl and Sybil Beck. Our car would be full of pots, pans, and baskets and a thermos of ice water. The upper field of camp was filled with wild strawberries. It was necessary for us to gather enough for jam to last the winter. The berries weren’t large cultured berries that fill grocers’ shelves, but much smaller, about the size of a kid’s fingernail. It was time consuming to push aside leaves and pluck stems to collect those little red jewels. With containers filled, we’d head back home to sit and sort through the berries removing the leaves and stems. Fingers quickly stained red.

Mom would boil sugar, berries, and pectin until the house filled with strawberry aroma and the kettle was a bubbling morass. When thoroughly mixed and heated, she’d put another old pan on the stove with cakes of paraffin. While the wax was melting, she’d wash glass jars in hot soapy water, then keep in hot water until she’d ladle jam into them, leaving stopping an inch from the top. They’d sit on a dish cloth until she would ladle paraffin on top. When the jam cooled and the wax hardened, she would cover the top of the jar with a sheet of waxed paper, then screw the lid on tightly. The chore was finished except for storing the jars in the cold cellar.

My neighbor liked to tinker with cars. I stopped by and he said, “I just finished wiring this car. Let’s take it for a spin.” The old car had a hood that looked like a bird’s beak.

Although the camp had been abandoned, boy scouts would still bivouac there on occasion. We took off heading to Wildwood. The dirt road was overgrown with only bare tracks and a grass hump in the middle. Having just rained, water lay in the troughs. We turned the corner and marching down both side of the road were boy scouts.

“Watch this,” my neighbor said and punched the accelerator. Twin rooster tails of water shot up behind the car. Boy scouts scattered. In the midst of the boys, the hood unlatched and popped open. Squatting down, he sped through, then waited until he was clear to wire the hood closed and return home.