Berry Picking

Isobel put the strawberry on top of the pile of small sweet and red dusty berries in her yellow bucket. She uses her bucket at the beach most of the time, but mom had given it to her that morning and it was warm and wet from being washed. "You'll be able to have a bucket with handles and you always loved the one with the flower on the front, see Izzy?" mom said in a sugar sweet tone as she handed it to Isobel.
Isobel squatted down to look into the bucket that she set on the ground. She wore a pink tank top that billowed with ruffles as the bottom. Her diaper crunched and rustled under her shorts as she squatted to peak inside her bucket as if for the first time. Each move was both clumsy and curious as she pointed in the bucket and said, "Mommy, there is no berries in here. There is no berries in heres! Mommy, what berries are where, 'cause they aren't in here mommy."
Mommy was busy getting her bowls ready for the berries she'd pick for batches of jam.
They rode out on a dusty road with daddy in the driver's seat, mommy in the passenger seat, and Isobel in the back. The car was hot, humid, and windy as the AC blasted to cool off the overwhelming selter of mid-June weather. One day it could be overcast and 65 degrees out. Not a rustle of a leaf or the whisper of a breeze. But there were days like today were the fog that lasted until mid morning dispersed and the sun beat down on the ground, warming it to send out smells of grass and dirt that would have been left dormant on an overcast day. The heat hit Isobels tinted window and warmed the air around her. As the turned the car around corners of fields and down new dirt lanes to get to the berry patches, the sun chased her and nipped at her limbs. It sneaked in through the windows on either side of the van and left warm impressions on her arms, hands and legs.
When daddy found a spot to park, there were noises coming from the fields as families picked, talked, and chased naughty kids who had been pelting berries at one another. The plants were low and easy to pick from. Isobel's dry diaper again rustled as she squatted, as she so frequently did, to poke at the plants, pick at green unripened berries, and pluck the leaves that acted as shelter for the fruits lying in the dirt below. Mommy came over to Isobel's spot, which was on the edge of the field because she hadn't made it very far before finding curious sights in the gleaned and empty plants of the first rows. Daddy closed the van door with a thud, and as he walked over, his steps sent up dust that made Isobel's eyes water. She blinked, stood up, and cried for her daddy to pick her up. Her bucket sat empty on the ground, as mom and daddy argued about which rows the lady at the tent told them they could pick at. There were miles away from the hot tent and it scales and cash register. Daddy was sure it was further back, while mommy was sure they said not to go to the back very far. They decided on a patch of land that was a ways away from the van, the edge of the field, and away from other families that had older children running up and down the pathes screaming. They ripped around and tore over the bushes, leaping from path to path as their mothers', who seemed to be friends, beckoned the kids to sit on the opening of their own van.
Mommy wore shorts and a tank top. Her tan was starting to show on the edges of her shirt sleeves. She smelled like a shampoo, and she was moist with sweat. She picked for two hours, only stopping to stand and stretch out her lower back and cup her hand over her eyes to look for me and daddy. Isobel was near daddy. She looked up at mommy and ate a green berry, as she laughed and said, "Izzy those are sour, you want the red ones baby." She sucked on the sour berry, made a face and picked it out of her mouth. She dropped it in the dirt. It covered with dust and rolled down the berry patch a few inches away. Isobel picked a red berry. Instead of eating it she put in on top of the pile of red berries daddy had picked and placed in her bucket. Her faces was covered with red strawberry juice and as she squatted, the wind picked up and her hair moved out of her face. She drank from the water bottle daddy brought. He looked down as Isobel, whose red juicy cheeks and hands had collected dust from the breeze to line her juicy stains with brown crusty dirt. She smiled, he smiled, and they picked up their bottle, buckets and headed back for the AC of the van. Mommy and daddy kissed as Isobel watched them close the van door after they had cleaned her hands and face up and strapped her into her car seat. The car was blisteringly hot, but it was running and the breeze blew on her. Her sweaty curls were up in a pony tail now. And as the heat and cool air mingled to create a warm encapsulating environment, Isobel was lulled to sleep. After a hot day, a long day, and a fun day, she fell asleep listening to the deep tones of her parents voices talking, the air blowing, and her tummy full of red and green strawberries, dust, and maybe a spider or two.