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Strawberry Season is Here!

It is June and you know what that means in upstate New York! Fresh, ripe strawberries! A short venture from Country House Bed & Breakfast will lead to endless roads along the open country fields with sprawling farmland and fresh air. The destination for the most recent trip into the country was the source of these red shiny jewels: Liebig's Strawberry Ridge. There are several places to pick strawberries in the immediate vicinity. At Liebig's Strawberry Ridge in Granville, NY, ( you can pick strawberries yourself or buy them already picked in the farm's nearby stand. The "u-pick" experience is one everyone must plan to do at least once. There is nothing like tromping through the fields to find the hidden red gems beneath the strawberry leaves. Fresh picked strawberries taste like candy, still warm from the sun. On this hot day, we decided to fetch our berries from the stand, and the experience did not lack. The scenery was breathtaking, as the rolling fields went past, with the mountains, clear in the background. Cows grazed and took respite in the shade. The farmers must be hard at work as the new season arrives, as there are rows and rows of baby corn, which, before we can find time to turn the calendar page, will be knee high by the fourth of July! The field flowers swayed and the breeze flew by, all in anticipation of what lied at the end: sweet, juicy bounty! Liebig's is full of what one would imagine when thinking thoughts of idyllic country charm. From the strawberry shaped sign to the genteel fellow behind the counter, this trip makes one revel in the country life. Even the Country House Dog peered out the window with great expectancy. What to bring home? Can we hitch the farm stand to the back of the car? A homemade pie, a jar of strawberry jam, fresh baked biscuits, and plenty of strawberries were decided upon. Two quarts of these delicious strawberries did not make it out of the parking lot! How lucky we are to have such splendor right outside our door!

What Is So Rare As A Day In June

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For our couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, And hark! How clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 'Tis for the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake, And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

- James Russell Lowell

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