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It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, really.

As my kids and I traveled down the country roads near my house, a detour toward a nearby strawberry farm appealed to us all.

It had been awhile since we had been to this strawberry patch — a long while since I had taken the kids to any strawberry patch.

I remember when the kids were small, taking them to pick strawberries for several years in a row. They enjoyed the whole experience of walking in the soft dirt and bending to pick the soft, red, seed-covered fruit. They took pleasure in putting the fresh berries in their tiny buckets.

As a 3-year-old, my son did not like the little, white butterflies flittering around his head as we were out in the fields. He would cry until they flew to another flower. I had to muffle my amusement.

My kids would often call my name when they found a particularly big berry, some of which filled my son's tiny bucket completely. As their buckets got full, they would bring them to me so I could dump their berries in with mine. They would quickly run off to pick some more.

I taught them not to step on the rows of plants or tip over their buckets.

After we had picked all my family could manage for that time, I would take the strawberries back to the farmer so he could figure out how much we owed him according to their weight. The price was always right for all the fun we had experienced.

I would make strawberries covered with sugar and whipped cream for my family. Special strawberry desserts would be made, and I would freeze several baggies full so that we could enjoy them long after strawberry season was over.

The weeks in May or early June when fresh strawberries were available for us to pick at local farms always seemed to be the real sign that summer fast was approaching.

The kids and I would go weekly to a local strawberry farm until it closed for the season.

Week after week, we'd bring home our tiny harvest and eat the berries to our hearts' content.

One year, however, all of that changed. I developed an allergic reaction to the berries.

I was devastated. I loved strawberries as much as my husband and kids did. Sadly, I had to give up this precious fruit I had enjoyed since I was a small child.

Just the smell of strawberries as I would pass them in the grocery store made me crave a big bowl of them covered in sugar and whipped cream once again. It was horrible to smell them and not be able to enjoy them.

Occasionally, I would buy the kids some strawberries, or their grandmother would buy some for them to take home and enjoy, on the condition that someone else would handle them.

Even touching the berries would cause me to itch and develop hives. It appeared our strawberry picking days were over.

That was until a few days ago when I made the spur-of-the-moment decision to take the kids up High Rock Road to visit Harold Apple's Strawberry Farm. It would be a sacrifice on my part to live with the sweet aroma of fresh strawberries in the house, but I figured it would be worth it, knowing how much they would enjoy the fruit.

My kids are older teenagers now and can pick all they want themselves without my assistance.

They jumped at the chance to have some fresh-picked strawberries just as they did when they were little.

They quickly got a tray to hold their strawberries, and all three of us headed down to the field. They each took a row and quickly found vine after vine of some of the biggest strawberries we had ever seen.

I just took pictures and helped them find good areas to pick.

They would pick for a few minutes and then stand and stretch.

Bending over again, they would pick a few more until our containers were full.

We walked the short path back to the farmer so our berries could be weighed and boxed.

Upon arriving home, our kitchen took on the aroma of fresh strawberries.

I so wanted to have some but resisted, remembering the reaction I had many years ago.

My daughter washed a few and cut them up for her and her brother. They put some sugar on them to sit for a while. Later, after dinner, they both enjoyed the fresh berries, savoring each bite. I think, to them, they tasted better than ever because they had worked to get them from the farm to the bowl.

Linda Vestal is a wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend living in Gibsonville. Contact her with comments or story ideas at lindavestal@triad.rr.com