Raspberries on a cool fall day

The last few days have been (yet again) gray and uninspiring, so I’m recycling a moment from last fall…

Yesterday brought rain to the drying cornfields—only a little, much too late to do significant good, but welcome nonetheless. Darkness teaches the value of each light, and drought teaches the value of each raindrop. And even though drought teaches hard lessons, it couldn’t daunt the raspberries growing on the slope beside my house. Many of the plants I’d lovingly nurtured in the garden last spring had yielded little or nothing; I’d neglected the garden for too long, and nature had rushed in to smear my squares of vegetables with reckless splashes of green. The raspberries, though—scions of a pair of stray suckers salvaged from a friend’s garden years ago and left neglected since then—yielded a feast. I went to them in the evening, cold wind blowing and shadows lengthening, and picked raspberries with my son. He held a little wooden box, but only a fraction of the harvest actually ended up in it. The brambles were wild and unkempt, and many of the berries had already dried to the point of being inedible, but there were still more than enough to feed us. Like the sunflowers, mustard greens, red amaranth, and exuberant volunteer tomatoes which had sprung up of their own accord in the garden, these untouched raspberries were the strongest and most generous of all my plants. The loveliest things, I learned, grow unbidden.

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One comment

  1. I just love reading these posts.

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