The strawberry has always been here and will outlast the planters, the fences, the planners. Sprawling along the ground, runners pressing against the edges of planters. A plan for expansion. Conquest.
It asks nothing of the season except to be picked and enjoyed while warm.
Indigenous around the northern hemisphere, they are a familiar sight over generations, even when far from home. Strawberries appear at irregular intervals, never enough at once to require planning or thought, and better for it.
The perfect spring treat is one that rarely makes it inside.
Never wasting the warmth of the sun in the darkness of a refrigerator.
Asparagus’s third act is without clear resolution.
A tip’s breakthrough was a declaration of the change of season.
Of its intent—spears up.
But each time a stalk rose high enough to stake its place, to force those that move through the site to heed its presence, the tenant would cut it back. For weeks, a handful a day fell for baseline meals. A different kind of barrier to break through.
Eventually a couple stalks per crown reach waist high and spread. With this new milestone, thick bases become woody. Staccato spindles redirect the flow. Needles spread, capture sun, and shade the base of some tomatoes.
A win through determination forcing the tenant’s capitulation!
But for the rest of summer the asparagus is left to wonder:
was this victory, or predestined by another’s hand?
The cone of a Wisteria shoot unfurls out to the tip with small purple and yellow petals. I fell for this appearance of innocence. I’m now vigilant of the voracious vines, wrapping and strangling all they can reach. Wreathing around trellises and fences, squeezing tight until the vine thickens and turns to wood, cementing its hold.
Gates squeezed forever shut.
Throughout the summer, ground shoots will snake through the grass to lie in wait. Still soft and flexible they go undetected by the mower. But one must be always observant when weeding, ready to move if a creeper slithers around the ankle. Sheers kept in reach.
And then there is the final trick: their pods hold beans similar in size and shape to bush beans. In spring, I still find last fall’s seeds laying in wait. The brown charming texture in a familiar shape is deliberate mimicry. Ingestion bends reality. Confused, delirious, crippled by vertigo: the vines are then free to conquer.
Only dregs remain to be teased slowly out of the rain barrels. A seemingly endless run of dry sunny days at this critical time in the garden schedule drains the reserves.
For weeks direct sow areas have been administered to a watering can at a time. After a long day of sun, once the shadows finally start to get long, I make careful passes of the most parched areas. Refilling ollas among the placed seedlings. Weary under Sola’s stare. Freeze when I catch movement, contemplating the shadows. Was that a glimpse of Maren, monitoring as I top off the reservoirs?
Turning on the hose, I am shocked out of a warm evening’s tired thoughts by a sudden spritz across the face. In the weeks since I last used the expandable it hose has formed a pinprick leak. A thin strand of water arcs out near the tap. A surprise in the moment. But, this is a normal maintenance concern.
It happens.
I repeat that to myself, pushing out the memory from last month,
of the hose suddenly cutting out.
Rejecting the thought that this is deliberate.
Sabotage.
Don’t clothesline a tomato seedling.
Don’t crush a cucumber into its trellis.
This early, everything is precious and I take my time in spreading the hose to protect the vulnerable. I replicate the thorough soaking that has been withheld, watching water quickly sucked down. A second pass a few minutes later and finally small puddles are maintained.
I fill not just the ollas but their caps. Everyone needs a drink.
Some caps I add small glass marbles.
To access a drink, bees also need a resting spot.
I hope these little pans of water, tributes over the reservoirs, prevent whatever comes in the night from pushing the caps aside to access the basin. Mornings after a disturbance, I see Sola, in the area where the cistern was breached.
Twitchy.
On high alert.
I found a door covering an olla.
Now I search the site with purpose for what else has changed.
Sola has recently taken up a new station. Mixed into the tomatoes, monitoring the perimeters of the caged greens. It is one of the first places I go to look. I shouldn’t be surprised to find a second door just on the other side of a tomato from her post. This door looks nearly identical.
I water around both doors.
Pull a few weeds and grass strands
trying to take hold.
I do not touch the handles.
As the ollas were placed, Maren and Sola took up their station. A base, one where each can frequently be found, but they are not chained to it. When a lid across the yard is agitated, the instigator invariably pauses. As if feeling eyes on them, or hearing weight shifting and a weapon rising. Not a response, but preparation in case one becomes necessary.
Topping off the reservoir is tolerable.
Tampering with what lies below is a threat.
Most ollas are adorned with stones.
Observation spots for the fairies. Weights to secure entrances.
But one day a door appears in the southern clearing.
Just off the deck, nestled in between the cucumbers and garlic.
A porcelain handle, garnished with an old hand painted flower, pierces wood.
One looks across Plot 17 then considers the plots beyond:
how far might this stretch?
Sola and Maren are known. Are they assigned?
Are there other guards stationed beyond the fence?
Or more unsettling: others so far unseen in Plot 17?
This chilling realization and its questions sit heavy for days.
Some battles aren’t ever won.
They are played to an endless draw.
Stasis being the one-word mission.
The areas I’ve left as grass, the performed ideal of a lawn, require maintenance. Not until June, once clover and violets have bloomed. In May, even Creeping Charlie is allowed to thrive. Anything to support the bees. They must feed themselves, help their offspring thrive. A tradeoff: I limit maintenance early for pollination and a healthy harvest later.
And then I work in slow-mow. Cut to the highest setting on the mower. Is there a science to this, an ideal best? Sure. But there are only so many hours. I set my limits by feel: when the grass is long enough to tickle my calves, it’s time to mow. The best I can do is a universal limitation not a choice.
In my garden areas, the battle lines are a back and forth. The grasses, nightshade, and Creeping Charlie are drawn to open soil, enhanced with compost and regular hydration.
In a sprint to occupy, they overrun the line I’ve drawn.
Every Saturday, long hours reestablishing the boundary.
Not enough energy to push back further.
Over a site with so many competing interests, it is inevitable that some align. As the tenant is out each evening pulling weeds maintaining a perimeter and clearing the cages of anything unplanned, Hopper starts to work closer. He nibbles at a clover a few feet away, then a little closer the next day. An eye on the tenant, but as the routine normalizes, Hopper’s nose is measurably less twitchy. His heart rate might even reach a calm 180 beats per minute. Well, calm for a rabbit charged with maintaining order across overlapping claims, shifting factions, and whatever appears overnight without explanation.
Variations on pink. In early June all five peonies along the southern fence bloom. For a fortnight their color radiates, petals stretching further and further open, until their wilting feels less like a natural expiration and more like an overly ambitious exertion, forced structural failure.
Once they wilt, they are deadheaded and they become invisible green bushes until winter.
But it’s a magical two weeks.
I’m lounging on the deck, deep in a book. Out of the corner of my eye I catch movement through the elderberry leaves.
This is out of the norm.
Barefoot, I spring up and glimpse Charlie bounding over one of my caged areas. Down the steps, I round the deck in time to see her, in a low prowl. She freezes in my presence.
Between us, a kit. It ran headlong into chicken wire. Stuck. Panicking. Charlie retreats below the deck. Monitoring. The kit shimmies free and scampers to hide under a zucchini.
I mentally regroup, look around. I see Hopper, on alert, standing on hind legs. Scrutinizing the situation.
An attack severed. For now.
I return to my reading, chasing Charlie off for the night. The kit will need a week plus to outgrow Charlie's attacks.
Final outcome: under review.
Brown, brittle, easy to crack.
Seed heads from the end of last year, left in the basement to dry out.
The power to regenerate the colors. To call back the monarchs. To give these thin spear-shaped flakes new life.
Zinnia seeds are forgiving.
Deadhead as they wilt. I don’t have to be precious and pull out the seeds. Just let the seed head dry. The following spring, still no need to intricately pick out the seeds. Rip apart the head, spread the pieces, and water liberally. A cycle I reproduce. Hands in the soil, I spread last year into this year. To get the joy: from the colors, from the butterflies that frequent them, the easy to reproduce results year after year.
A trench near the peppers, another along both sides of the tomatoes. I redirect the cycle to fit this year’s planting pattern. Direct sow for a quick sprout followed by a slow formation and closed with mid-summer fireworks. Not choreographed, but a grab bag so I can enjoy the surprise. Explosions of colors, a beacon to pollinators.
Dragging my cultivator through broken ground.
Tink!
I hit something solid. Fingers sieving through the loose soil, I find a sharp flake, then a small chip. Terracotta. I dig a wider area and find the larger pieces of what was once a saucer.
During a late fall rain, sink into the soil and you'll find yourself gripped by icy fingers. Steady pressure. Until you crack.
Was this missed during cleanup and crushed by what ruled then? But, I look through the remaining unplaced ollas to find I’m not missing a cap. Is this something more targeted? I look toward the peppers and see Sola, for once not staring. In fact very intentionally looking towards the door.
This is the first time I’ve considered water fairies as more than individuals. Are Sola and Maren part of a larger coalition? Are there others who see me? This may be a message from the fringes of the site’s hydrology. A message whose sender nor target can I identify and whose reach is unfathomable.
Stems extend up, creating room for leaves to capture the warm sun.
Then one day, the stem pulls a full loop.
Natural whimsy.
Ecologically it's a preparation for optimal seed dispersal.
Administratively it’s a signal that the scapes are ready for harvest.
The tenant’s first treat: sautéed, a light blend of garlic and onions.
The second benefit: removing scapes redirects energy toward enlarging the bulb.
Win-win for the garden administrator.
The loop returns every year.
Nature relegated to a minor role in the tenant's plan.
Recorded Here
for the Unlucky
The fairies of Plot 17 watch over this record.
Would be thieves: they will know.
Your produce rots by morning.
Dreams of horrors you can't name.
You leave home and walk in circles:
close enough to see where you're going,
never arriving.