Tuesday, June 3, 2008
I'm a sentimental girl and the tiniest things have great meaning to me. Like strawberries. I spent my childhood growing up in Phoenix. Our front yard was sand, gravel and cactus. But somehow in that desert mix, we planted a strawberry patch. Of all things. I remember playing outside in that heat and smelling those strawberries. Picking only the reddest, sweetest ones.
I wanted to continue that with my own girls, so we planted a garden this year. And this strawberry plant was the first thing we planted. We actually trucked it all the way from the East Coast to the West Coast last summer. It was a going away present for us when we moved out here, given to us by our favorite neighbor, Hawaiian Jim. I call him that because our other neighbor was Mean Jim (horrid man). Hawaiian Jim wore shorts and had the bare feet all winter long and skateboarded with his grand kids in the suburbs of D.C. He made good coffee. He was a fun guy. He gardened and he shared his strawberries. I could use a Hawaiian Jim living next door to me here.
So we tucked the little plant in the back of the car with the vacuum, pots and pans, and 94 lb. fat lab and somehow it made it all the way to Oregon. And now, we have our first strawberry from it. A sign of summer. A taste of childhood for me and my girls. And the sweet reminder of a good friend.