Strawberries, Birds, and Children – Life’s Outtakes by Daris Howard

By Daris Howard

copyright © 2007 All Rights Reserved
Daris Howard can be reached atdaris@darishoward.com or by going to www.darishoward.com

There is nothing I enjoy like a good challenge.  My wife, Donna, informed me that she didn’t think there was any way on this planet that I could grow enough strawberries to ever make her tired of them.

Her father grew up on a strawberry farm in California and his family ate strawberries seven days a week, kind of like we in Idaho eat potatoes.  He grew to despise strawberries and, once he moved away and had his own family, the word ‘strawberry’ was considered akin to profanity.  Thus Donna, in turn, has an insatiable desire for them

Therefore, when we finally bought a place of our own, I set out to prove I could grow more than she could ever want.  I planted a strawberry patch roughly the size of a small ranch, all laid out in nice, neat rows three feet apart.  I planted starts from every kind of strawberry my relatives and friends grew and added dozens of other varieties found in glossy seed catalogs. I threw in a few more from every local nursery and even pilfered a few unknown kinds that grew wild along the canals.  I figured I alone, with my purchases of strawberry plants that year, subsidized 50% of the U.S. agriculture industry.

I carefully watered, tended, weeded, fertilized, and cared for my precious plants.  They put out lots of runners, and by late summer, the ever-bearing varieties were bright with white blossoms.  Soon the little plants were laden with dark green berries which slowly, but surely, grew and started to blush a bright orange and finally a mouth-watering red.

I can vividly remember the day I triumphantly carried a handful of strawberries in to Donna.  She graciously wanted to share with all of us, but I told her I would have plenty later, when more ripened.  She carefully laid out three bowls, her own and one for each of our oldest two daughters.  Celese’s and Annicka’s eyes danced with excitement at the prospect of this new food.  Donna equitably counted them out, “One for me, one for Celese, one for Annicka….”  She continued this process until each bowl had exactly the same amount.  There was one strawberry left over and she insisted I eat it.  We enjoyed our harvest and my daughters squealed with delight at this flavorful fruit.

I was pleased with my efforts and looked forward to many days of similar enjoyment.  However, something happened.  Every morning, before heading off to work, I would survey the patch with the intent of picking it that evening.  But, I would come home to find that all of the ripe berries I had seen earlier were gone.  I was sure it was the fault of the birds which sat squawking along the perimeter of the garden, acting as if I was the intruder.  I spent a small fortune on every conceivable device to scare them off: owls with glowing eyes and swiveling heads, snakes that seemed to wriggle, and hawks that floated on the breeze.  But it never failed that all the berries that were even semi-ripe were picked clean every night when I came home.

I was considering catching one of our cats and staking him out there to earn his keep, when I entered the house and heard a sound that caused me to pause and remember.  Celese, in a voice reminiscent of her mother, was saying, “One for me, one for you, one for me, one for you…”

I peeked around the corner and saw my two daughters sitting around a big bowl of strawberries, each of them holding a smaller bowl, as Celese carefully subdivided their day’s bounty.  It was then that I recalled that they had hardly eaten dinner in weeks.  It all came together and for the first time I understood that if I was going to win this challenge, I wasn’t going to be growing strawberries just for Donna.