STRAWBERRY PATCH / WENDY LANE
There is a small patch of garden next to the house that is the only place we can grow plants requiring full sun. My spouse Judy and I planted strawberries there and gathered dead pine needles to fertilize the soil. The heirloom seedlings we transplanted from wild strawberries have grown reliably every year with small, exceptionally sweet berries. They grow so prolifically, they could take over the entire yard, so we have to pull them back around the edges periodically. I eagerly pluck the ripe berries and smell them before popping one in my mouth.
Our friend Mimi was thinning her rhubarb and offered us a transplant, so we added that to a corner of the garden. When I pull the stalks to make rhubarb cake using my mother’s recipe, I remember she also made strawberry rhubarb jam and pie from the plants in her victory garden. She said my grandma, whom we called Nana, told her to always keep a garden of edible plants in case of food shortages.
Mom taught me to garden. She gave me a small section of dirt within her larger vegetable and rose gardens, and my area included the rhubarb. After I pulled stalks and washed them, she handed me a small cup of sugar to dip the rhubarb in. The sugar cut the sour taste, and satisfied my sweet tooth.
Besides gardening together, mom and I shared a love of dogs. When mom retired, she lived in a condo she enjoyed, but it didn’t allow pets, so she moved to a townhome that did. Her heart was set on a Westie, a small dog breed known for their white coat, compact body and happy though sometimes bossy nature. Mom finally found a female puppy that stole her heart, with bright black eyes peeking from a big bubble of white fur. Mom called her Abby. Only a few months later, mom became ill and couldn’t manage caring for herself and the puppy. We didn’t know at first what was wrong with her, so I offered to take Abby temporarily until mom was well enough to take her back. But mom never fully recovered and I inherited Abby.
Whenever I visited mom’s house after that, I brought Abby with me. As the car approached the block where mom lived, Abby would start jumping up and down and make whimpering noises. Their bond was strong. Sometimes I was jealous of the generous love mom poured on Abby that I had not received from her. I never really stopped thinking of Abby as mom’s dog, and that I was just her caretaker.
Mom was a firm Catholic. When I came out as a lesbian at the age of eighteen, she couldn’t reconcile who I loved with her faith, so she withheld her affection from me. It wasn’t until she finally divorced my alcoholic father after his affair, that she stopped taking church doctrine so literally. Much later, when Judy and I held our wedding ceremony, mom happily attended. We found a comfortable middle ground in which to enjoy each other’s company in limited circumstances.
When mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis began to progress quickly, I took pictures of her holding Abby. Mom couldn’t remember Abby’s name, but the two of them knew each other without the need for words. Mom looked happy and calm in the photos. After she died, my sister used one of them for her obituary.
At the old age of thirteen, Abby got a cancerous growth on her front paw, and we had to put her to sleep. She was cremated and the vet gave us a little cardboard box of ashes. Judy and I decided to bury it among the strawberry plants, to fertilize the soil and keep her close.
Later when I received mom’s ashes, we agreed she must be buried with Abby, even though it was illegal. We also planted two blueberry bushes in her honor, whose fruits thrive in the shared space. Ashes from two senior rescue dogs have been added since.
Judy and I are now retired in our sixties, and have been contemplating a move to a senior living campus. We are on a waiting list for independent living at the same place my mother moved into when she was diagnosed with pre-Alzheimer’s. It is sad that the only garden we will likely have there is a small patio container.
As we consider releasing the burden of caring for our townhome, we hold tenderly within us the memories created over many years. We have remodeled or replaced something in every room, making it reflect who we are and what we love. I have no doubt we will do that as well in our new place. But we won’t be able to put roots in the ground. I wonder, what will happen to our strawberry patch, and will the next owners continue to nurture it as we have?
WENDY LANE / SAINT PAUL, MN
Wendy Lane is haunted by the memory at age ten of a cross being burned in her neighbor’s yard in the late 60s. Raised White and Catholic, she thought it was a threat against her religion. When she came out as a lesbian, left the church, and learned the true meaning of the burnt cross, she found god in nature, art and synchronicity
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Original photo credited to Judith Fairbrother