After checking the carrots and potatoes in stovetop kettles, I loudly announced, “Everything is ready. Let’s pray, so we can sit down to eat.”

My four youngest grandchildren, Luke, Jacob, Gemma and Blaise, wandered into the kitchen where my daughter Niki, sisters Rosie and Agnes, and I stood. Looking around, Jacob questioned, “What are we having?”

I’d made a fresh loaf of bread. Rosie brought a bowl of fruit salad, and Agnes brought a jar of pickled okra, and cheese curds to go with supper. Niki made roasted chicken thighs. She instructed, “The plates and silverware are on the counter next to the stove. Mom’s bread is on the counter next to the refrigerator. When you have what you want, find a place to sit at the table. The rest is on the table.”

This was our weekly Tuesday night family meal, where each week we enjoy good food and conversation. When the meal was over, my company started to think about going home to relax for the night. Agnes and Rosie hugged each other, then they hugged me and Niki, then the children hugged my sisters and me.

I stepped out the back door of my house, pleasantly surprised at how velvety warm the evening spring air felt. A chorus of spring peepers from by the nearby river were peeping loudly and a flock of birds in a grove of trees sounded like they were squabbling over which branches to roost on for the night. Stepping out of the house to join me on the deck, my sister Rosie chirped, “It’s been lovely! I’ll see you all next week.” I watched everyone get into their cars and drive away.

From a tree next to the house, a robin warbled a song of praise and thanksgiving. From the top of the yard light pole, another robin joyfully answered. The sound was delightfully pure.

Hearing the robin calls took me back in time and to an evening when I was a very small child watching my mother, two sisters and a brother picking strawberries. After supper earlier that evening, Daddy and my brother went to the barn to milk cows. While Mom and a couple of my sisters cleared the table, I hunkered down and took my time eating a slice of buttered homemade bread. When the dishes were taken care of, Mom announced, “We’re going to pick strawberries before it gets dark.”

Equipped with buckets, Mom, two of my sisters and a brother trooped to the garden behind our apple orchard. I tagged along, too young to pick, and too young to stay in the house alone.

I loved the orchard that stood on one side of the garden. Beyond it were rows of beans and peas and then a long bed of strawberries. Beyond the strawberries was a long row of cherry trees. I felt like this part of our farmyard was a magical place filled with good food.

As Mom picked berries, she complained about how many were damaged by birds. In a nearby cherry tree, a robin caroled it’s happy night-song. The sound was beautiful, like liquid joy. Mom glanced up at it and grumbled, “That greedy robin is laughing at us.”

I liked the sound of the robin’s song. The rich smell of the garden soil and dew-dampened growing things filled the air. I knew Mom would give me a bowl of strawberries with sugar and milk when all the berries were picked.  All the world was new, beautiful and bright and I felt happy.

Now, so many years later, that childhood memory returns each time I hear a robin singing their evening song. As the last vehicle pulled out of my yard, I waved goodbye. It was starting to get dark, and I heard one last robin warble his blissful song. The earthy scent of freshly cut grass filled the evening air as I went back into the house. Rosie’s fruit salad had had strawberries in it, and I knew there was one serving left. I felt happy.