strawberries...a labor of love

Strawberry Patches are very labor intensive. Once you stake out a plot of land for a strawberry patch and purchase the starter plants, one has to determine where the rows of plants and the walkways for the harvesters should go. The starters are planted in the spring and by late summer to early fall there are at least 3-4 runners coming off of each plant. These must be guided into their rows so they don’t put down their roots into the walkways of the harvesters the next season. If the runners are allowed to put down root wherever they would, the harvesters will damage the plants, which spring up from the runners as well as the fruit from them. If no order is placed upon the patch the entire patch will be so over grown with strawberry plants and berries and weeds, the harvesters will not be able to harvest without trampling on the fruit for not being able to see the fruit hidden under the leaves, which serve as shade from the hot summer sun. Also, in the fall of that same year the farmer must put bedding under and around the plant, to protect the plant from the winter’s cold and to protect the fruit from becoming laden with dirt and mud during the rains throughout the following spring and summer. Now, the straw bedding is incredibly important to the strawberry—so important that the name of the berry was named after the type of bedding used for the plant. No other, fruit has been named after the bedding it takes. The bedding is about as essential as the fruit itself, for without it, there is no fruit, or there is unusable fruit.

However, straw bedding is sort of a catch twenty-two. If in the fall the farmer should happen to bed the patch with straw that happens to be from a weedy grain field, the whole patch will be choked up in weeds the following spring. Yet weedy straw that one buys from the market cannot be distinguished from non-weedy straw. The farmer has to either grow his own grain or treat the straw he purchases to kill the weed-seed before he lays it down as bedding for his strawberry patch. Yet even as great care is taken to keep weeds from choking the strawberry patch, it is very difficult to keep ahead of the weeds. My father was a strawberry farmer and has had numerous fields. Every single one of the fields he gave up on where due to the uncontrollable weed problem, which was complicated by the strawberry runners going everywhere. He couldn’t even keep up with the weeds by putting his wife and 10 children to work in them to root them out.

Once the rows are established and the runners have populated the number of plants sufficiently. It takes either 1 or 2 years after planting the starters to sufficiently populate an organized strawberry patch. During these 1-2 years the farmer does not allow the plants to produce berries. Thus he plucks off the flowers from every plant that blooms so the plant’s energy can be given to establishing a stable and well-rooted plant. The plants will then bear fruit for two to three years. Every year, much care must be given to bed the plants and keep them free of weeds. In my area of Minnesota there are numerous u-pick patches, there are very few patches for commercial use. The reasons u-pick patches are so popular is because (1) the people prefer the quality of the fruit grown and raised locally. Typically, those who buy u-pick berries never purchase them at the supermarket. They harvest during strawberry season and preserve their harvest, for use throughout the coming year. (2) The harvest process is kept manageable by u-pick patches. Since the berries ripen only during the month of June, the farmer would not be able to keep up with the harvesting unless he hired migrant workers. There are no harvesters invented for picking berries. They must all be picked by hand. The fruit is too tender and fragile to invent a machine that would take sufficient care in its handling. (3) The price of the fruit is kept affordable for the local people if they come to pick the berries themselves. (4) The farmer and then more efficiently focus on keeping the patch clean and organized for the people.

concerning plant rotation

Every 2-3 years, 4 years maximum, the farmer must rotate his plants. The best way to do that is to in the late summer when the plants are putting down their runners, rather than directing them in the rows of 3 and four and 1 yr. old plants, they are directed to root down in the patch’s walkways. The aim is to make the walkways into planted rows and then to till under the rows of old plants and make them into walkways. Before one can till under the old plants the new plants must be firmly established and even then the wiry runner lines hang tenaciously to the mother plants. Those runners need to be cut before the old plants are tilled under.

considering the pests that come to drink of the fruit before its time

In the spring of every year the patch must be fumigated just as the plants are about to bloom. There is a particular insect or bug, which enjoys the nectar of the flower. It bites the flower, and in the process stunts the development of the fruit, severely deforming the shape of the mature berry. We called these berries nubbies, separating them from the rest of the berries that were for sale, because they had a large undeveloped spot on them. Because we were frugal, we cleaned and ate the good part of the nubbied berries, but the nubbies were unpleasant to clean because it took extra work to cut out the nub.

concerning the manner in which the berries ripen

Strawberries ripen according to a particular pattern. First, a very large berry ripens. The first berries off of a plant are the cream of the crop. Everyone enjoys them immensely because they are the first-fruit of the season. They are also the largest berry of the season. The next to ripen are two more berries a little larger than half the size of the berry before it. The next berries are four, which are a little larger than half the size of the two previous berries. Finally, if there are any more ripening berries there will be eight, which are a little larger than half the size of the four. Usually, however, the plant terminates its production after the set of four.

warm, sunny, spring days

Nothing is better and more enjoyable than warm sunny spring Sundays. It doesn't matter what else is happening in life, the energy and happiness of everyone out walking and enjoying a warm sunny day after a cold winter is the most calming and liberating feeling in the world.

blog promotion

I grew up in the same community Dorcas Schmucker did. I understand, in context, most everything she writes about. Her blog often gives me a sense of being known via shared memory. And I relax and laugh hysterically sometimes when I read the observations she makes and the ordinary stories she tells. I especially like the Deutsch comments she and her readers banter with back and forth.

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/

One very poingnant observation she makes …

"The worst thing about this Amish baggage of mine is that it makes it so hard to discern if this kind of behavior is actually wrong or just embarrassing."

For context—read the following.

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2005_04_24_dorcassmucker_archive.html

interpretation

Sometimes in my writing I like to play with the communication mechanism and medium. This is likely why it is a good thing that my readers usually are not relatives. Often my topics are spin-offs of topics that have entered my sphere through conversations with friends, acquaintances and incidents I run into. I’ve done my best to make this blog a smattering of random thoughts not directed by any one influence. The most well-organized thoughts make the cut. The one’s I find most intriguing make the cut. And then sometimes I try to experiment with medium and method. For instance, my latest parable I entitle love and marriage. The theme is really loose. I leave it up to the reader to determine the moral of the parable. The complete opposite of what I used to do. Although I say it, I am very detached from what it means. I know there is meaning somewhere but I don’t own it or want to find it and nail it in place with strong direct words. The topic itself is a line of thoughts removed from some conversations I’ve had with numerous people recently on marriage and who one should marry. I’m thinking of doing another “parable” where I just describe an object. I'm not sure how it will work but it will be intresting.

This is all a long way from where I used to be, laying things out in black and white, chronologically, rationally everything only having one meaning and one interpretation. I almost die of boredom thinking about how not interesting that was. I was trying to make the artist in me into a scientist. Maybe this new sort of expresion works. Maybe it doesn’t. It’s an experiment.

An aquaintance Dorcus Schmucker touches on the same topic.
http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/04/misunderstood.html
(I especially like Arlene's comment,
Du aums ding!!!! Ich bin bat en brilla fa dich)

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006_03_19_dorcassmucker_archive.html

child wisdom on love and marriage

There is wisdom to be derived from stupid childhood banter I used to hear.

Suzie: (dramatically) I love chocolate chip cookies and I love to eat them with milk! And I love picnics and butterflies and lemonade and ice tea.
Suzie’s bratty kid sister: (in a nasally voice) Well, if you love them why don’t you marry them?

the drama that shapes us

Having managed a household for the past number of years and rented rooms out to numerous people, mostly single women, I’ve had my share of “household disasters.” Sometimes, the issues that have cropped up with the stove, the refrigerator and even the air quality have been dramatized to hilariously spectacular levels and their solutions were just as dramatic. I don’t think this is just a female thing because my brother was also involved in some of the more grandiose solutions usually. Like the time when he was going to build a frame of 2x4s to pin the washer to the floor so it wouldn’t sound like a helicopter all the time. The solution was a matter of simple balance.

Then there was the time when our old fridge was leaking water. I went shopping for a new one. I spent a weekend installing it, because the hole in the wall had to be cut larger for the new one to fit. We swapped everything from the old fridge to the new one and there was still water everywhere. We began to look more closely, and the conversation went sort of like this, “Hey, what’s this plastic water jug doing in the fridge inside a plastic bag?” “Oh, that’s mine. I put it in a plastic bag because the jug had a leak in it.” I laughed my head off and then I wanted to cry. Needless to say, I learned very quickly that one should not assume the problem and its solution are ever identified properly.

Then one time a new roommate was moving in who was allergic to absolutely everything, especially cats. There hadn’t been any cats at the house for 4 years, however, she was reacting to something. “It’s got to be the carpet!” everyone decided. We’ve got to tear out the carpet, hire someone to clean the air ducts and then shut all the windows and run the air conditioner/purifier. I was about to despair at the magnificent costs and work which all of this required and the vacation I would have to give up for it. However, I determined that we should wait a few days, purify the air with portable air purifiers and see if that does the trick. In a few days, it was determined that the allergic girl had the flu.

I look back on all the good times and the crazy times and realize they have formed me. I’ve always had a sense of group interpersonal expression and the need for balance within it. So, when there is “crisis”—when everyone is freaking out and being emotional, I feel internally compelled to keep my cool and be the voice of reason in those moments. And as I say that, I get flashbacks of injuries my siblings have incurred upon themselves. One Saturday morning my younger brother was using the skill saw outside. Suddenly he came screaming, crying and limping into the house. He was trying to hold shut a gaping wound he had just cut deeply into his upper thigh. The look of it sent a chill of terror through my whole body. I allowed myself one grimace before I had to kick into overdrive because I took one look at my mother who was wringing her hands and decided that wasn’t helpful. On the other hand, I do have my drama queen moments but I usually choose those to not overlap with other crises that others are involved in.

I have lived in settings where there was constant crisis all the time. So, I’ve become quite immune to needing to react. When others have crisis demonstrations, where the justifiability of it yet needs to be determined, I decide whether I can spare the energy for an emotional reaction or if calm collectedness or ignoring the perceived crisis is the better option.

For those who don’t know what I’m talking about because you are always giving dramatic performances. Get off my blog! You make me tired….you…you energy vampire!


Clarifier: This entry was written a while ago, when I was weighed down by too much drama in my life. An extrovert would have done okay but I am an INFP and need my quiet time in order to function well. INFPs don’t like conflict either. Yet they will walk through conflict in order to defend principles and causes they believe in. My message here is not that I hate dramatic people. I find them very lovable. One of my closest girlfriends is a drama queen. We’ve been friends and also roommates 3 times. Her Mom is an alcoholic and a drug addict. The drama never quits with her mom. And she is her mother’s daughter and the drama never quits with her either. Yet she calls me her sister. I love her. We’ve had to work it out. It wasn’t always easy but we were honest with each other.

waiting for the resurrection

Yesterday was Easter. I went home to visit my parents. My mom had some organizational tasks for me to complete. I was already in a fowl mood when I got home. It didn’t help that nobody knows where my sister’s last journal went. Nor that my mother always tells me when we talk about the journal that she wishes we would throw it away because of certain things written there-in.

She wrote about the million and one men who were constantly pursuing her. She was beautiful. She had perfect, delicate, facial features and a gentle humble heart. Her personality was much softer than mine but she was feisty and fiery too. She wrote about how it troubled her deeply that old men pursued her and couples would have arguments that somehow rested blamed on her. She wrote about her men problems. The rest of us sisters no longer talk about the men problems.

Lots of things are different now.

My younger sisters didn’t come home. We used to believe that Jesus died, so others could live—now some of us have other constructed variations of that. We don’t read the stories of the martyrs. My sister used to be alive. We, my sister and I, used to talk about what it means to live a passionate faith-filled integritous life. Now her silence speaks from the grave. We put her clothes on the pile for the garage sale or in the throw-away pile. We sat like docile lambs in a new church who’s martyrs wear fatigues, apparently.

I didn’t stay at church to hear more about the new martyrs. I ran, then walked home, in my flowery spring dress and sandals. It was about 8 miles. It was just beginning to rain, then it stopped. The wind was gusty. Two wolf-like dogs came out to chase me and bark at me. I stared them down. A burly bare-chested man appeared at the door of the house to yell at them. Really, the dogs were more afraid. I mourned. I cried. I screamed into the wind.

Easter is about death and resurrection. I’m still waiting for the resurrection. Easter is not over for me yet.

to love

Loving people is the hardest thing in the world. Loving them in the right way is even harder than the hardest thing in the world. Loving them when they are assholes is like dying a million times over.

the face of knowing

In the most recent phase of my journey through this pilgrim land, I have been enamored by symbol in all its epistemological glory. The first class I took in Seminary was Epistemology. We never talked about symbol. And we mostly talked about foundationalism and the virtues of truth derivations from logical categories. My anxt was piqued against the authority everyone seemed to ascribe to all things logical and calculatable. So I wrote a paper on the epistemological value of the mystical. Symbol, parable and, yes, even mystical experience, have drawn me in steadily, ever since. Logical arguments moving precisely from point a to b have their own effect but there is nothing that delivers a smarting slap in the face, as does a well-placed parable or image laden with meaning. Nor can anything leave one in such profound amazement. What is even better is if one can tell a story and it has multiple meanings—the more multiple the meanings, the more genius the parable. This is in large part why I have fallen in love with the scriptures all over again. Before, scripture was God’s operation manual to humankind. Now I read and everything has layers of meaning in some of the most fantastic artistic expression. The prophets took symbol and parable to the nth degree. Many lived their parabolic message. My intrigue and amazement always begins and ends with them because they are actually quite shocking in their presentation. I love it! Take Hosea, who lived a life with an unfaithful wife to exemplify the relationship God had with Israel, who was as unfaithful as Gomar. Ahijah the prophet anoints Jeroboam as the king over ten tribes of Israel by taking off his new coat and tearing it into 12 pieces and giving 10 to him. Christ’s parables were in your face. John’s visions on the Island of Patmos are divine. In my own life, images and visions have transformed entire paradigms for me in an instant. At other times in my life, I have been inexplicably compelled to communicate in symbol. When my sister treated me hatefully, I felt as though dying by knife stabbings would be akin to what was occurring. I thought to give her a knife and demand that she stab me instead. I could probably still send her a knife. When I discovered my so-called boyfriend had a wife and child, I sent him a white rose (her name was Rosalie) and a lollypop along with the things he requested. I don’t think it a coincidence that I was vomiting violently for a day after encountering the truth. Vomiting is symbolic. Gifts are symbolic. Self-mutilation is symbolic. Unfaithfulness is symbolic first, actual later. Viruses are a particular symbol of evil. A totally free gift is an act of altruistic love.

Then! If you look closely enough, a harmonic symphony can be discerned when one looks at the movement of the hand, the gift offered there, the word off the tip of the tongue, the glint in the eye, the patterned step on the path and its rain drenched/sun scorched brick. Dissonance evokes its discordant lurching. Harmony sings its melodious dance.

all secrets have one destiny

florida moments

while waiting at the terminal…

I was drinking a fruit smoothy I brought along: brand name, Naked. I set it down on the coffee table, while we were waiting at our gate. My mom looks at it, turns it around, so the label was facing the wall, not the lobby, saying in Deutsch, we don’t want people to see that.” “Es sagt nackich.” (It says naked). Somehow it is much more schantlich (embarrassing and shocking) to say the word in English than to say its direct translation in German.

while waiting at the terminal…

Mom: What are you doing on your computer?

me: I’m writing.

Mom: For your blob?

me: (…after rolling on the floor, sides heaving with laughter, tears streaming from my eyes, everyone looking at us strangely.) ..., “Mom, it’s not a blob, it’s a blog.

my aunt: So what degree will you have now that you are done with, whatever it is that you have? What letters will you be able to put behind your name?

me: I’ll have a Masters of Arts in Theology. And I don’t know what letters that puts behind my name. I just know that I need to go to school for 4 more years to get my doctorate and then I can put Ph. D. behind my name.

my aunt: Oh, really! Then you should go to school for it, if that’s all it takes to become a doctor. We need a doctor to take care of us once we get old!

me: Well, I wouldn't be able to be that sort of doctor. It would be called something more like a Doctorate in Theology.

my aunt: That's not a real doctor!

The moral of the last two stories: No matter how “educated” or “advanced” one becomes, there will always be people who don’t recognize the “particular specialness” of the categories. And that is a good thing.