Halfway between the garage and the road our driveway made a T, likely intended as an extra parking spot or a turnaround area. Our parents generously parked elsewhere, donating the area to us as our private domain, perfect for young, wobbly bike riders, for lavish chalk art, and for the occasional homegrown circus.

These usually featured an excess of poorly executed hula hoop tricks, endless figure eights performed by Missi and me on our bikes along with Eric on his trike, and in the center, my little sister Lydia as an exceptionally adorable clown.

It was here I learned to ride a bike for the first time. (Yes, despite the cliché, there was a second time, but that’s a story for another day.)

The rectangular area was bordered by thick, soft grass layered over dense patches of moss so luxurious I frequently harvested it to serve as beds for the many fairy houses I built into the crevices of roots and recesses of tree trunks, often wishing I could finagle a way to replace my own mattress with a patchwork of mosses.

One day in late spring Missi and I spotted brilliant red berries growing above the mosses; they clustered among yellow blossoms and thick green leaves. Upon closer inspection, I felt the thrill of discovery, every nerve suddenly taut with equal parts excitement and anxiety. We had found strawberries. Real strawberries, we believed. They were smaller than store-bought strawberries, but that was to be expected from wild strawberries, we supposed.

With shaking fingers, we gathered a handful of the jewel-like berries to present to Mom with the all-consuming question, “Can we eat them? Please please please please?”

The answer was no. They were poisonous, she explained. Beautiful, but poisonous. They were just disguising themselves. They were strawberry lookalikes. But they were definitely not strawberries.

Her answer continued to gnaw at me long afterwards. It would be so nice if they weren’t poisonous! It was hard to come right smack up to reality and have to stop right there. I mentally jimmied around for a crack in its armor, some way to prepare them that would render them harmless.

I pictured the first poor wandering soul who had encountered and consumed these false strawberries. I wondered if they had understood why they were dying. Did others observe what had happened and understand, or did many people have to die before they realized that the berries were the cause?

Mom always saved us the green plastic baskets that grocery store strawberries were packaged in for our many craft projects. Although she reiterated that we couldn’t eat the wild strawberries, we secured her permission to gather them in the green woven baskets for the sheer pleasure of collecting fruit.

As we gathered, Missi and I fantasized about selling the wild strawberries in a stand at the end of the driveway. We spun alternate realities in which they were nutritious and highly sought after and our little fruit stand was soon booming, occasional drive-by business quickly turning into a steady stream of regular customers. We built a blue and white striped awning to shade us during our long hours at the strawberry stand.

After a long afternoon of strawberry picking, we lay scheming in our pink striped bedroom at dusk, Missi in the top bunk, and I below. Maybe, we thought, the strawberry stand could offer a permanent solution to a perennial problem—our little brother Eric. Loud, argumentative, obnoxious, and incomprehensible, he tagged along with us whenever possible, much to our dismay.

Maybe, Missi suggested, we could create a giant strawberry suit for Eric and pass him along with the wild strawberries to an unsuspecting customer.

We were elated. What a simple plan.

Yet, not so simple.

His size might give him away. But we could explain that this was just an especially large, juicy strawberry. He might make a noise during the sale and alarm the customer, but we could just tell him he had to be quiet (as if that had ever worked!).

We fell asleep still massaging the details of the plan.

I have since learned that mock strawberries, also called Indian strawberries, are bland and undesirable, but edible. I’m glad that no one died in the pursuit of that knowledge.

I’m not sure why, but we never got around to making that strawberry suit. I’m glad we kept him.