The Memorial Strawberry: A Sweet Legacy...

Two years ago this past May farmer Tim Frohning left our Valley and this life (The Valley Loses another Farmer). In attendance at his memorial  along with a standing room only crowd were a thousand strawberry plants (outside in the parking lot), one of the farming projects Tim was unable to finish. Guests were encouraged to take a four inch potted plant to celebrate a farmer's life. I chose two, one for my daughter who was unable to attend, and myself.

In a vacant spot in the garden, at end of a short row, I watered in the little start. If you're a gardener, no need to tell you about the strawberry's penchant for self-propagation: one plant becomes a patch by summer's end; come season two, the patch has doubled. As the patch expanded, it became an aggravation to till around and weed. I vowed to contain it in a raised bed, a permanent patch I could easily tend and cover.

This spring, two seasons later, I finally tackled the job. My finished project was a 4' x 4' square made from 2" x 12" stock, the joints tightly lag screwed in place. The four foot square was the perfect size for the four foot wide heavy gauge plastic mesh pieces I knew would be necessary to protect the crop from the berry farmer's nemesis: those thievin' robin redbreasts. After I filled the bed with compost and garden soil, I dismantled the patch. Tim's solitary strawberry had runnered off three dozen or so offspring. I chose twenty of the most vigorous plants and set them in the raised bed, watering in each with a liberal dose of fish fertilizer. I was able find foster homes for most of the remaining sprouts; the rest I tilled under.

The plants bloomed and the fruit set. As soon as the first berries blushed pink, I put the bird barrier in place...just the perfect size to protect the raised bed, the cover easily peeled back to access the crop. From three of four pickings I've treated myself to fresh, sliced berries with my morning's dry cereal and had enough fruit leftover for a homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie.

My little patch, its berries recall the memory of Tim Frohning, that mischievous twinkle in his eye, his quick wit, hearty laugh, and gift for helping others. Perhaps it's only imagination but for some reason these strawberries seem extra sweet to me, maybe because of the work I've put into the patch, but I suspect it's the memories of Tim that enhance their sweetness....

Goji, Goji-ing, Gone...or so I Thought...

My brother Kevin has a penchant for horticultural exotics. On his forty acre "experimental" farm in Orting, Washington, (Chippingtwigfarms) you'll find a curious variety of strange plants: bamboo, kiwi fruit, several species of pussy willow, borage (?), horseradish, paw paw, persimmon. Berry esoterics: Aronias, honeyberry, high bush cranberry, goumi berry, jostaberry. The 'Twig farmstand also stocks the more conventional berries in season: blueberries, raspberries, thornless blackberries, blackcaps (NOT thornless), currants, red and black. Then cruising the cutting edge of the envelope, brother forges on with mulberries, elderberries (an elixir for winter's coughs and colds: black elderberry syrup, "winter's tonic,"one might say). And lets not forget the figs and gingseng.

My three brothers and I have gardening in common; each of us, however, gardens at our own level. Kevin, whose goal has been to have a farm stand from which to market locally grown organic produce, gardens more on a commercial scale. The other brothers three are more backyard gardeners with gardens scaled down to family size but always with an excess to share with the neighbors or the local food bank. We pride ourselves on the produce we can lay aside for the winter months...an ant vs. grasshopper sort of thing. Whenever we find a new variety of vegetable, berry or fruit, it's been a family tradition to share our gardening discoveries with each other.

And that's how three years ago at our family Christmas Doin's thanks to Kevin's plant exotica I was given the gift of the Goji. I had never heard of a Goji bush but the novelty of the plant had its appeal. A little research in a seed catalog touted the Goji as: "renowned in China for centuries (should have been the first red flag--excuse the pun) for a nearly boundless list of health benefits (a Goji berry a day keeps the Dr. away")... "...the fruit ('These sweet, super nutritious berries') are high in anti-oxidants and contain more beta-carotene than carrots." "Wow!" I thought, "Only to step into the backyard garden for "a virtual shelf of vitamins, minerals and health aids" and armed with this stunning information, in mid-March I planted the eight inch sprig.

As so often happens in life, beneath the good news, lurks the bad. I should have read the "small print" that followed, especially the sentence that said: "The plants have a dense, spiny, vining habit, and prefer well-drained soil with full sun exposure." The Goji and the garden's sunny, "well-drained" soil hit it off immediately. By summer's end Goji had grown to a sizable bush. A few delicate star-shaped flowers bloomed, sprinkled here and there among the vines. Flowers, yes, but not a single berry. After all, I thought, it's just the first year.

Next spring I pruned the bush back to the ground, only to learn later the Goji fruits on last year's growth.  Goji responded to its bushwhacking with a vengeance. To encourage it to climb, I built a trellis which the spiny tentacles soon covered. Mid-summer pruning did nothing to deter its prodigious growth. By fall Goji had commandeered a sizable portion of the garden, claiming ever more real estate by snaking its spiny feelers every which way.

Wherever the tendrils touched down, Goji established roots, cloned itself like the principal in a sci-fi movie. More blossoms than the year before, yes, but of those little red nubbins of health...not a sign.

On our slim acre I have certain expectations of the plants I tend. All I ask is for reasonable payback. Seems only fair for the watering, pruning, and weeding attention I lavish on the plant, a gardener's quid pro quo, you might say.

For the plants that fail to produce, I'm hanging judge and executioner, and I soon built a solid case against Goji: three years and no"super nutritious berries,"only healthy exercise from pruning the thicket and rooting out the baby Gojiis that sprouted willy nilly like mushrooms. We, Goji and I, had developed an adversarial relationship. Because of its invasive tendencies I referred to Goji as "the bush that ate the garden."

"Goji," I decided, you gotta go," and moved the thicket to the head of my list of spring pruning projects. Come "G" day, I honed the pruning loppers, grabbed a shovel, a new pair of work gloves and went out to do battle. I soon realized my task was like untying the Gordian Knot. The spiny vines were so enmeshed, I had to cut away lengths of vine, unraveling each section by section until I freed it from the grips of its fellows. Finally after an hour of bushwhacking, Goji's trunk hove into view. Shovel at the ready, I moved in for the kill. But Goji, as in the old pioneer saying, had "set down roots" and was not about to relinquish its stubborn grip on the garden's "well-drained soil."With much grunting (me) and roots popping (Goji), we went at it for a quarter of an hour. One final decisive thrust of the spade and with a loud pop, I severed the last of the tap roots and yanked the root ball free.

It was a hard fought battle and out of respect for Goji, I decided to commute its death sentence: instead of the burn pile, give it a second chance off the property on the right-of-way across the road. It would prove a formidable foe against Riley Slough should it flood come fall. It'll serve as a verdant dike, I thought.

Here's the sequel. Big Goji was gone, but all summer long infant Goji remembrances popped up here and there, testimony to the vast root system still lurking in the "well-drained" soil. I extended my hoeing routine to grub out these less than fond memories. Come fall, I thought I'd eradicated Goji's next generation, so imagine my surprise when just the other day I noticed a suspicious type of foliage masquerading as a currant bush: Goji had returned: the gift that keeps on giving.

As brother Kevin shared, there are two varieties of Goji: a summer variety and a late summer. The latter will flower, set, but the fruit will never mature because of our short growing season; however, if you are so inclined to give the Goji a go, be sure to ask your local Master Gardener: "Is this Goji right for me?"