A little over a month ago a box came in the mail. Inside were twenty-four strawberry plants, bound with a rubber band and wrapped in brown paper. Unfortunately they did not arrive with the two hours of time I would need to prepare the bed and plant them. Sort of like a new toy that you cannot wait to play with but which requires batteries that are not included.
I put the box in the garage thinking that in a week or so I would have minutes to string together long enough to get the work of planting them done, but the time did not appear, and when it did there was snow, or soaking rain, or some other disincentive.
Then I sort of forgot the box was there. Every once in a while I would open the garage and catch a faint whiff of strawberries and think “where is that coming from?” and then remember. But most of the time when I open the garage? It’s to get the car out and go somewhere. Usually somewhere needful and without delay.
On Mothers’ day, after Bruce prepared the bed and wrangled the homemade cover out of the basement, I unpacked the box, removed the brown wrapping paper, broke the rubber band that bound the mummified, desiccated remains of strawberry plants, apologized to them profusely (for the delay and for my hideous appearance — see yesterday’s post, if you dare) and planted (or buried?) their remains, watered them, and hoped.
I am still watering and hoping… For at least one of the twenty-four. Or maybe next year.