The Dalys were a nice family who lived about three or four miles beyond us. They had a farm and Mr. Daly, like Papa, peddled the vegetables and fruits that he raised. The road in front of both houses was dirt, as were most of the roads in those days. We could hear Mr. Daly coming down the road in his wagon a long time before we could see him. We knew he had his wagon full of things he would be peddling.
He always stopped in front of our house. Sometimes Mama would buy something he was selling. Sometimes Mama and Mr. Daly would swap items. For instance, she would swap him a basket of peaches for something he had raised that year that Papa had not planted.
One morning, as always, I went out with Mama to see what Mr. Daly had on his wagon. I was very small, probably two or two-and-a-half years old, when my eyes fell on these beautiful, red, cone-shaped “things” in a small basket. I could not figure out what they were. I did not remember ever seeing them before. They were so red and pretty.
Mr. Daly noticed my staring at them. He reached and picked one up and handed it towards me. Mama turned to me, “Lorine, Mr. Daly is trying to give you a strawberry. Don’t you want it?”
“A Strawberry,” I thought. “A berry made of straw? How terrible! Don’t you know it would hurt my mouth and throat to try to eat it. How could they ask me to eat a berry made of straw! A straw berry!” All of this was flying through my mind. I backed away, turned, and ran as fast as I could into the house.
I stayed inside the house until Mr. Daly went on down the road in his wagon. Mama had her arms full of items as I went outside towards her. Then I saw them. In one hand she had a small basket full of those beautiful red berries made of straw. I helped Mama carry some of the things inside the house.
“Why did you not want one of these pretty strawberries, Lorine?”
“It would hurt me Mama!” I answered.
“Hurt you?” she asked.
“Yes, it would scratch my throat when I swallowed it. I don’t want anything made of straw.”
Then Mama chuckled, “Honey, these don’t scratch. They are not made of straw. This is a fruit. They grow on a plant in the garden. They taste real good. See, I am going to eat one.”
I was still not completely convinced. “Why are they ‘straw’ berries then?”
“That is just the name given to them. Try one, I think you will like it.”
Thus I was introduced to strawberries. The next year Papa had them growing in our own strawberry patch.