Red, red wine

This is not a post about wine.
Strawberry picking,
one summer,
when I was a teen.
Early to rise,
thanks to my clock radio:
local station
(the only station)
played "Red, red wine" by UB40,
every weekday morning at 6 am.
I grew to detest that ditty
by the end of the week.
Permanent connection
in my brain:
every time I hear that song on the car radio,
I'm transported to the hot, damp, draining work of strawberry picking.
That summer of little money, tortured knees, and ruined jeans,
but I could eat a few berries as I crawled along the rows.
Worth it? No.
The end.
A poem.
An anecdote.
A memory.