June 26, 2008
Yesterday as I was leaving the house, an alarm went off in my head. It's almost my birthday and that means the strawberry fields await. My sister and I had planned to go out for dinner, but I cancelled at the last minute and told her there was only a small window of time for me and it was now. She knows me, so she understood. If I don't get my berries stored away for the winter, I get mean!
And I am so glad I decided to go.
Out in the back of the fields at Schartner Farms, I had already picked a 10-pound basket, one that I'd brought from home, and set it between the rows so I could fill another, when I heard a woman say that the full basket made a pretty picture sitting there in the sun. I looked up and she showed me her basket – the type you buy at the farm, made of white cardboard. It had darkened some and was a bit worn by time and use and it had that heftier look of older things. Then she told me why it was so special. On the bottom, was a year-by-year record of all the times she'd been picking with her daughter, who was only five when they began picking together (she's a college student in Boston now). Some of the entries said "We didn't go" and many had descriptions of picking conditions, such as:
1998 - Strawberries rotting on vines due to rainy season
The beauty of it was that Elaine Goryl, of Smithfield, took that treasured basket to pick yesterday afternoon, even without her daughter by her side, just because it held so many memories and because it was the next best thing to having her there.
I've done something similar, I told her, where, every year, at our annual Mother's Day picnic at Blithewold, we take a picture of my twin daughters in front of the same tulip bed near the entrance to the grounds. From the first year when they were just two years old, fiddling with a Chapstick, to this year's photo, ear buds securely in place, I've documented their growth and personalities as they've evolved. Each year, the photo is more meaningful as the chain of tradition grows longer.
If you have a tradition you decided early on to record, let me know about it by commenting here. If I have a chance to scan some of the tulip photos, I'll add them later. Check back!
Posted by Beth Heaney 
at 8:31 AM | Permalink
March 28, 2008
While hanging a birdfeeder on a tree over my little pet cemetery behind the house one Saturday a couple of weeks ago, I noticed the daffodils starting up through the soil over the spots where I laid some of our beloved pets to rest years ago.
I knelt to touch the sharp tips coming through the pine needles and the deep feeling of sadness moved in on the backs of sweet pet memories.
Daffodils marked the spot where I buried the best dog who ever lived, my black Great Dane, Spade, and and at that moment his memory was vivid. He prefered to lean on me than to lick my face. We were fortunate to be able to adopt him at the tender age of one from the people who lived here before us. He lived a good long life chasing rabbits and protecting our family out there in the woods, but began to fail the very year my daughters were born.
More daffodils over my calico cat, Goldie – rescued from the animal shelter when I moved there 22 years ago. She stole my heart and changed my mind after I had nearly adopted the big cat in the cage next to her. She cost me $5.00 and then a whole lot more once I got her home and found out how ill she was. She lived to be almost 14.
An Easter lily was not yet visible over the place where we buried spunky little Chance, our first Airedale terrier, who left us early on.
And finally, a cluster of crocus over a tiny sunken spot taken by an unnamed newborn kitten, forgotten and left alone by her mom frantically moving her litter on a night that was just too cold.
This spring, I've got to find a perennial to mark the spot where Dennis, my daughter's gerbil, is buried along with a jar containing a handwritten message, explaining how much that little gerbil meant to her.
Fletcher, my dog, came by to see what I was looking at so close to the ground and I began to tell him all about his predecessors. But he wasn't interested. He just wanted me to shut up and throw a stick.
Posted by Beth Heaney at 10:35 AM | Permalink
January 11, 2008
Last night, while cleaning off an old computer at home, I ran across some garden images that I took a couple of years ago. I'm sharing this one with you because it made me think back to all the good memories that I have of peas.
When I was really small, maybe 6 or 7, I'd guess, my paternal and very Italian grandparents, were in charge of me and not my other three siblings for one summer night, for whatever reason. They took me to the drive-in to see a double feature -- Dumbo and Lily. At my age, in those days, I had never considered eating healthy. Why would I? I ate what all kids ate and never thought anything of it. Instead of taking me to the concession stand, she leaned over the seat and handed me a paper bag full of fresh plump green peas still in the pods. I don't even know how she knew I'd like them but I sure did, especially because they were fun to pop open, to peel back and to scoop clean. So sweet, so crisp, so cool. She must have just bought them at a farm stand before she picked me up. Every time I eat them, I think of that night. And they are the first thing I plant in my garden every year, along one whole side of the fence.
Peas from 2005, Exeter, Rhode Island
One day, maybe four years ago, I offered to take a friend's son for the day to help her out. It was a day when I had planned to do some garden work. When he arrived, I asked him what he felt like doing and he didn't know, so I asked him if he wanted to help me plant the peas in my garden. What child wouldn't want to go outside and work in the dirt? (To a gardener, that's "soil", but kids prefer to believe they are playing in dirt, so we'll leave it as dirt). We spent a lot of time looking for long thin branches and pruning off the little shoots so we could tie them together to make the teepee-like structures the peas could climb along. We tied them together, spread the bottoms and set them in place. Then he planted the peas all around them, watered them -- the works. He was so proud of what he had done that he had to show his mom when she got back. Later on, when the peas came in, I sent a big bad of pods to his house so he could see and taste the result of his hard work. I wasn't there to see it, but his mom described a scene much like my memory of the drive-in. And since then, when he spots me, he always waves and flashes a big smile and I know what he's thinking about.
And last, but not least, there is Fletcher, my Airedale, who eats the peas right off the plants once he knows where they are. It was my own fault, trying to teach him a funny trick. I forgot he had such a good memory.
Now remember, planting your peas is only about, what, 11 weeks away? Maybe earlier in the warmer than usual climate of late. Rest a little now, gardeners! Go to a movie, read a good book, take long naps. Your gardens will soon be calling!
Posted by Beth Heaney at 12:29 PM | Permalink
