Reflections on the Second Week of Spring – Strawberry Surprise

Strawberry Dressed with Worm Compost

    Saturday afternoon, while chickadees sang hey sweetie and wind chimes clanged on the porch, I knelt beside the log frame of the raised strawberry bed and stuck the dandelion digger into moist soil. An earthworm wriggled past my hand. I pulled out a clump of strawberry and creeping Charlie. “Why do weeds entangle themselves in strawberry roots?”

    “The same reason they grow around rocks.” Spence reached for a handful of dirt from a forty pound bag of “utility” soil and spread it around the everbearing strawberries I’d already weeded. Between us sat a plastic bucket containing twenty-four Albion strawberries―hairy brown roots topped with opening strawberry leaves. We’d planned to use them for infilling bare spots in the newer strawberry patch, but last year’s strawberries sent out numerous runners which clumped the plants together. Separating and spreading the plants left room for only one Albion.

    “We’ll plant the Albions in the older section.” Spence pinched off a plant and set it in a bare space. “The strawberries are old and tired there.”

    I untangled the roots, pushed the strawberry into the soil, and tossed the weed over my shoulder.

    The wind tossed it back.

   Sheesh. I grabbed the weed and a handful of brown strawberry leaves, set them behind me on the garden path, and stabbed the dandelion digger beside crabgrass. Listening to wind rustle leaves, I weeded three more square feet in the thirty by four foot newer section of the raised bed.

    Shouts broke the country quiet.

    I dropped the mud-covered digger and stared down the road.

    From between the trees rolled a blue pickup with an Amish man sitting on its open tailgate. His wide brimmed hat stayed in place despite the wind―no doubt the hat had a chin strap.

    He jumped off the tailgate and yelled. “Keep the truck in front of him.”

    The pickup stopped.

    A high-stepping black Morgan pulled an empty sulky toward the pickup.

    The Amish man stepped to the middle of the dirt road and waved his arms up and down. “Stop. Stop, boy. STOP!”

Galloping Morgan's Horseshoe Print

    The Morgan’s hooves dug into the road and threw up clumps of dirt. The horse veered around the man.

    He lunged for the sulky and missed.

    The spirited horse galloped around the pickup and down the road.

    The Amish man jumped on the tailgate, grabbed the wall of the truck bed, and shouted, “Try again.”

    The pickup sped away.

    Spence set the bag of soil beside the bucket of strawberries. He walked to the road and peered after the trio. “I think they caught him.” He squinted. “Yep. They disappeared beyond the rise.”

    The melody of clopping hooves, humming engine, and shouting man faded, and a second Amish man emerged from between the trees.

    He bent over bicycle handle bars and peddled full speed past the garden.

    Spence turned to the bicycle rider. “They caught him.”

    The man stopped his bike, straightened his body, and pushed the wide brim of his hat higher on his forehead. “It looked like someone was driving him.” The man turned his bike around and peddled away.

    Spence walked to the garden and picked up the bag of filler soil. “That was a surprise.”

    “How did the horse get away?” I picked up the muddy dandelion digger. “Will they come back this way?”

    Spence shrugged and spread soil around yet another strawberry plant freed from weedy companions.

    I yanked a clump of crabgrass and flicked an earthworm off the white roots and onto the strawberry bed before tossing the weed. Then I grabbed an indistinct mass of brown. A pricker sunk into my middle finger. Oops. A dried thistle. When I’d cleared two more square feet in the strawberry patch, clopping hooves broke the country quiet.

    Pulling the sulky, the high-stepping black Morgan pranced.

    The Amish rider held reins with one hand and raised the other in a wave.

    And the pair disappeared between the trees.

    I glanced from the empty road to the trail of weeds I’d tossed on the grassy path. Crawling around the corner at the end of the raised bed, I stuck the dandelion digger into the moist soil to root out yet another clump of creeping Charlie. Mourning doves cooed from the log house eaves, and tree branches creaked in the wind.

    Weeding gets tedious. Dig out the roots, shake off the soil, toss the weed onto the grassy path to die and decompose. Dig, shake, toss. Dig. Shake. Toss.

    But the Morgan’s high-stepping enthusiasm will accompany me whenever I weed or pick strawberries this summer. I’ll listen for clopping to break the country quiet and hope to see the spirited Morgan horse―with or without an Amish man in a wide brimmed hat.

Digging In Morgan's Horseshoe Prints