An English In Kentucky


















May 30th 2010    Tim Candler

    I might understand Strawberry Aggression.    Sometimes blame can be placed upon those whimsical cardboard cannikins found in grocery stores, the pages of magazines and picture books, and the woolly world outside of Strawberry reality where dew looks pretty.   But mostly I blame the Strawberry itself.   They are like princes, because they sparkle and promise and make demands upon their caretakers that lead often to a revolutionary zeal that is ever unrequited. 

    I can picture ancestors happening upon a loose collective of Strawberry along the borderlands of forest and wondering at the taste and color of the fruit, the shape of the leaves and I can see that twinkling eye as a nimble finger picks the first weed or offers a first cup of water.    And I bet you it was the sweet tooth of children that did this to us.  Then when all is vaporized there will be a newborn  Strawberry plant glowing like the angel of hope in the dim light of extinction, and it will probably be cockroaches that care for them.      

   This season I will not submit to Strawberry Aggression because I will not fall for Strawberry wiles.   I will throw out the literature, and I will ignore the pleas of others.   "Let them eat cake" I will say with the devil in my face.   And I will watch wilt and ague and that host of complaint without out a single ounce of emotion in my response.

    They do need to be weeded, the runners trimmed, a suggestion of watering maybe, perhaps a feed and fluff because their soil looks dour, and I could remove the sadder leaves, trim them a little.   And because I might understand Strawberry aggression  I am keenly aware that these few tempting tasks could fully occupy the remainder of the year.

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