Near Munford, as we headed towards home on Highway 21, we noticed parked cars leaning into dusty ditches along a side road and realized that all those six-feet-apart, bent over people who’d abandoned their cars were picking strawberries. “We should go back,” said TOR. I agreed. Both of us have lived in Alabama long enough to know that red-ripe Alabama strawberries, bar none, are the sweetest in the world.
“You don’t want to pick our own, do you?” TOR asked hopefully as we approached the table set up in front of the farm shed. Fortunately, the masked lady behind the table had white plastic bucketsful ready for instant sale. TOR did the math in her head. “We’d only save about $4 by picking our own, and that’s just $2 apiece,” she whispered and pulled out her wallet.
We had happened upon Watts Strawberry Farm, where Curtis and Patricia Watts were doing a booming business but were also clearly prepared for THE VIRUS. Their policy: No mask. No picking.” They also had a hand sanitizer station, and all employees were wearing gloves as well as masks.
As we headed back to the car with our treasure, even my bladder was about to reach capacity when I noticed two beige porta potties right beside the road. “I might have to consider using one of those,” I said out loud just as a teenage girl stepped out of the first one.
“It’s perfectly fine,” she said with a smile. “Very clean, with paper and hand sanitizer right inside.” She was right. Clean as a whistle. Even though TOR had used the MapCo earlier in the day, she took advantage of one of Mr. Dan’s Cans, too.
ROAD TRIPS! 