Although it is pointless, I have weeded the strawberry patch. I have a very special relationship to this particular strawberry patch. When we came home from California, my strawberries had died. I had not expected the tenant to take care of them, but I was upset. You normally get twelve strawberry plants, and next year you have plenty, and there is a continuity that feels satisfactory. The following summer my parents were visiting, and I asked my father to help me start a new strawberry patch. He had always been fond of gardening; I have a picture of him in my garden planting potatoes. We two went to a garden store and chose the strawberries. We didn’t know anything about the many varieties available, we just liked the names. He dug up the patch and helped me put a net over the plants.
Two years later my father died. The strawberries have flourished and multiplied. At least if they perish this time, it won’t be my fault.
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