are running in a dramatic way. Almost as though the sports believe
that somewhere there is perfect soil. Usually by this time in August
the older plants have settled into sluggish resignation. They sit
there in bad temper, contemplating decline and then sometime around frost
they start to cheer at the prospect of winter.
tell you now they are a most cantankerous plant, and those of my own
species who beam at the mention of their name have in my view only ever
met them at a breakfast table upon which there is a white table
Perhaps in that ethereal place where
species were decided, the strawberry was designed by committee to
encourage the future needs of those gardeners who would give up on soil
altogether. The hydroponic crew striving for an idiom of perfection
through appearance only.
It is a temptation because at some future
time, when the wretched have no where else to go, we will be put into Arks
and dispatched to the four corners of our galaxy. Our kitchens will be
supplied with giant and perfect fruits from the laboratory. Through
the light years we will feast on strawberry products and as new colonists we
will arrive frail and pink and hungry for meat, and what a surprise we will
There are some who insist it was in this
manner we ourselves reached the planet earth. And when I hear
praise of strawberries during those nine months of the year during which
strawberry plants lie at death's door, I am moved to include myself in this delusion.
Meanwhile in the vegetable garden regular
rotation is a necessary prerequisite to that three month period of relative
strawberry contentment. So while the youngsters watch I will soon be euthanizing
their old and crippled parents. And why? Because pandering to
the white table cloth has always been a grizzly business.