fonticulus

One of the things I’ll miss most about where we live now, when we buy our own house, is the teeny little patch of wild strawberries in the front yard. Every year, we cut the plants way back once we have to mow that section, but in the spring, we let it run wild until after the strawberries are done. Usually we get about five tiny little berries, hardly more than a whisper of fresh red summery sweetness on your tongue.

This year, we didn’t do anything differently — no fertilizer or special care — and yet our strawberries plants are fecund with berries. Almost every day lately, there are three or four ripe ones, and I stop on my way up or down the stairs to pluck a few. They have sent runners out over the cement, so they are hanging right on the edge, just waiting to be picked. I think it is my duty to make sure we get all of them before the birds do.

Speaking of birds, there’s a loud and cranky bird that hangs out on our phone line, right above the rhododendrons. I think he hates us. He squawks in fury every time we walk by. I am pretty sure it’s always the same bird. He’s there several days a week. When we let the cat out, he goes insane with anger, and you can hear him all up and down the block. Genghis Khan coolly ignores him, of course, because that cat is centered.

It’s sort of comforting when I come home and the bird is there giving me the evil eye. He’s a fixture. But I have to say I prefer the strawberries. There’s about a week’s worth left, I think, and then they are done. And next year we’ll hopefully be in our own house somewhere else, with a new local bird, and who knows what kind of yard. So each time I go up and down the stairs, I’ll sift through the growing grass to find the wee little berries and savor these tiny pleasures.