Straw Breeze

A cultural/horticultural epiphany at the beach

It is a short two and a half block walk to work for me on those days that I work. The first block that I walk is down an alleyway between the back yards of 1950s suburban homes. There is almost never any traffic unless a trash truck is going down the alley emptying trash dumpsters. It is a peaceful and quiet walk. I can empty my mind and then recite my affirmations that I will make it through the approaching shift at work. I can also say hello to a certain dog in a certain back yard.

And at certain times of the year I can stop to sniff lilac bushes (like right now). But there is another treasure that awaits me over the course of this short one-block walk. Behind an old dilapidated garage behind someone’s house there is a small patch of strawberry plants. I love strawberries — or as the British call them, “Straw breeze.”

A new family moved into that house about four years ago and I am convinced that they are utterly, thoroughly, profoundly, and completely unaware of their strawberry patch behind their old dilapidated garage which they never use.

I, on the other hand, am keenly aware of that delightful little strawberry patch. I can spot a strawberry plant from a hundred paces. And I observe this particular strawberry patch throughout the year, noting its various cycles.