Strawberry Fields Aren’t Forever

Marshall Strawberries At Their Best

Strawberry Stories Are Complicated

As I write, I’m eating a handful of sweet strawberries and thinking sadly about racism and my much loved island community. Years ago, Bainbridge Island was called “the fruit basket of Puget Sound”, famed for extensive strawberry fields where succulent Marshall strawberries flourished. Their history here is complex, sometimes sweet as a berry, sometimes sad, infuriating, even heartbreaking. Juicy and flavorful, the Marshall strawberry was selected in 1890 by amateur grower Marshall F. Ewell from a group of seedlings on his Massachusetts farm. Despite a relatively brief period of production (usually just a few weeks, like most midseason varieties), by the early 1900s, the Marshall became an important field crop in the maritime Northwest, appreciated for its rich, full flavor.

Commercially, they were a challenge to ship, as they’re so juicy that even cardboard punnets leak juice when the berries are piled more then 2-4 high, but they were by far the region’s favorite berry for the next 50 years. When field crops were ravaged by a virus after WWII, Marshalls fell from favor and were no longer a commercial crop by the mid- to late 1950s. Locally beloved, Marshalls have been grown in modest amounts in home gardens ever since. In recent years, they’ve been embraced by trendy chefs, gaining a reputation for being among the tastiest of all strawberries.

More And Better Berries Too

Not everyone agrees, of course, and most people who grow Marshalls also grow longer-season and more disease-resistant varieties. My garden holds a rewarding patch of Seascape, a reliable cropper of plump, juicy, and flavorful berries. A day length neutral variety with excellent disease resistance, Seascape fruits heavily in June and into July, slows down in the heat of high summer, then starts up again as August slides into September. Quinalt is another family favorite, an Everbearing variety that produces abundant crops of delicious berries from June into September with barely a break (as long as the plants are well fed, of course). I keep my Marshalls separate from the others, and pick them every day in season (as in right now!) because their perfection is so enticing and so fleeting. I do interplant them with onions and garlic, which are supposed to repel pests but are also slender enough to share ground with wide-spreading berry runners.

My prized Marshall plants were a gift from from Lilly Kodama, whose brother, Frank Kitamoto, was among the first to speak out about the internment of Japanese Americans during WWII. At age 7, Lilly was taken, along with Frank, their sisters Jane and Frances, and their parents, to Manzanar War Relocation Center, and later to Minidoka, a concentration camp in California. Almost 12,000 other people of Japanese ancestry were taken from their homes in Washington State to the camps when President Roosevelt issued the now infamous Executive Order 9066. Lilly has become a frequent speaker in school classrooms and other groups, telling and retelling the story of how the islanders were given six days to pack away their belongings and were only allowed to take what they could carry to the camps. The strawberry fields were full of fast-ripening fruit but there were no longer any farmers to take them to market.

Historic Fruit

On March 30, 1942, 227 Bainbridge Islanders, many of them strawberry field owners and workers, were the first to be taken; given Puget Sound’s U.S. naval bases, they were seen as possible threats to national security. David Neiwert, author of Strawberry Days, said in a Seattle Times interview,“The relocation destroyed the livelihoods and careers of thousands of citizens, based on an unconstitutional mass presumption of guilt. It humiliated a whole population of largely loyal and patriotic citizens by identifying them with the national enemy. It uprooted families, destroyed their close-knit structures, and laid waste to whole communities.”

Before the families were taken away, overseen by soldiers with fixed bayonets on their guns, the island’s Japanese American community had some of the Puget Sound’s largest, most productive farms. Indeed, Japanese American farmers were the first to bring commercial strawberry farming to the region, though for many years, the Asian Exclusion Act did not allow non-naturalized citizens to own land, or to qualify for US citizenship. Thus, if first generation Japanese Americans bought land, they had to put it in the name of friends or relatives who were born in the US (sometimes making for very young property owners). Several generations of Japanese American families cleared land left bristling with stumps left after the forests were clearcut for the Port Blakely lumber mill. They did it by back-breaking labor, turning the clearcut island into fertile strawberry fields with horse power, dynamite, and shovels. It had to be heartbreaking to leave the hard-won fields, yet after the war, only about a fourth of the original farm families were able to reclaim their land, as many farms were lost when back taxes could not be paid by people newly released from incarceration.

New Beginnings, New Partnerships

On Bainbridge, the forced removal of the Japanese American farmers left strawberry fields ready for one of the largest harvests in years. In many cases, Filipino American hired hands moved into the empty farmhouses and kept the harvest from rotting. Soon Native American pickers were recruited from British Columbia and over time, marriages produced a blended community of self-proclaimed Filipindians, families that often paid land taxes for the absent owners. As American war involvement increased, many field hands went to work in the shipyards and most farms fell fallow. After the war, only a few island farms started up again; a notable exception was the Suyematsu’s, now worker-owned, the oldest continually farmed in the region, and among the region’s first to become certified organic.

During the incarceration, many West Coast communities were strongly racist and fiercely anti-Japanese (as some remain to this day). Although racism was and is definitely present here, Bainbridge Island was largely a welcoming community and had the highest rate of returning families after the war ended and the concentration camps were closed. In large part, this was due to local newspaper editors Walt and Millie Woodward, who ran columns and letters from the camps, recording everything from births, weddings and funerals to baseball game scores. Almost alone among West Coast periodicals, the Woodward’s Bainbridge Review published numerous editorials (many written by Walt Woodward) in support of the Japanese-American families during and after the internment.

A Change Is Coming

Racism continues to be a problem in our local schools, where students of color are taunted, teased, and bullied far more often than most locals are willing to acknowledge. This is a community of great privilege, and perhaps it’s not surprising that many of us are not especially interested in looking deeply at uncomfortable issues. On Saturday, however, a large, peaceful and mask-wearing crowd marched from the police station to City Hall, sometimes chanting “I can’t breathe”, sometimes marching in silence. The march was organized and run by high school students, who made up a very large proportion of the crowd, which numbered in the hundreds. I was heartened to see so many young people standing up for justice and calling for an end to racism. It’s definitely a good time to do some serious thinking about what kind of country we want to live in, and what we need to do to make it so.

The combination of a deadly pandemic and a huge uprising of protests urging social justice is both sobering and exciting. It’s clearly a time of great change, and I’m hopeful that the young people who turned out to protest the murder of George Floyd won’t tolerate racial slurs or bullying ever again, in any context. I’m hopeful that from now on, more and more young people will call out teachers and parents and grandparents who look the other way, or accept racist remarks and acts as normal. What about older folks? For starters, all of us need to work on getting comfortable with discomfort. We too are called to speak out when we see or hear racist behavior. Polite or not, easy or not, comfortable or not, calling out racism is our business, now and forever. Onward, right?

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When Fear Drives The Bus

photo by Leesa at wildvizionz.com

If critters can interact peacefully, so can we

Black And White Thinking

Yesterday I found myself doing that slow crying where you don’t realize it until you discover that your face is wet. Disheartened. Heartsick. Heartbroken. Like everyone else, I’ve been watching more news than is good for me; it’s nauseatingly, horrifyingly fascinating. I keep saying I won’t watch anymore but I can’t seem to stop. One especially painful element is the clear prevalence of black and white thinking on display right now; all white people are A (right?), all people of color are B, all police are X, all protesters are Y, all looters are Z, all corporations are XYZ. It’s much easier to fall back on generalizing and blaming/shaming than to recognize that we are all complex; we each have the seeds of everything in us, from peaceableness to passion, from anger and aggression to generosity and gentle kindness. I’ve been feeling very uncomfortable with my own emerging desire for perpetrators of evil to be punished in ways that really hurt them. I’ve never seen my own desire to hurt anyone else before and though I don’t want to do the punishing, I do want it to be done. Realizing that is bone-deep nauseating.

I can’t condone violence and I can’t truly understand it either because I’ve never needed to understand it. Nobody lives for close to 70 years on the planet without experiencing or witnessing some form of violence, but I always had the ability to look away, or to walk away. My life hasn’t been uneventful but despite some pretty rocky patches, I have almost always felt physically safe. I’ve never lacked food for any significant length of time. If I occasionally lacked housing, I never felt myself to be homeless because I assumed (correctly) that the situation was temporary. Looting is similarly obscured by privilege for me; I dislike being in crowds, I don’t enjoy noisy situations, and I am uncomfortable around people who are emoting strongly about pretty much anything. Nothing in me wants to grab a tv set and run, but then, I don’t watch tv and if I wanted one, I could buy it. I can’t feel judgement about people who do loot in riot situations, except when I can see plainly that the destruction is very deliberately being done, not by local people, but by paid agitators whose goal seems to be dividing and conquering our country.

Listening To Looters

Throughout human history, the difference between looters and those able to profit from disruption, deprivation, and danger has always been power and the lack thereof. In truth, the biggest looters I know of are the kleptocrats, corporations, and politicians who gleefully rape and pillage the planet and its people in the name of profit (or sometimes just because they can). I keep thinking about Dr. King saying, “A riot is the language of the unheard.” It took me years to wonder what, exactly, we weren’t hearing (ok, I wasn’t hearing), and to look past my assumptions to find out. What I’m hearing now is that some of those who took advantage of disruption to loot want to disrupt society, damage the social justice movement, and scare the crap out of peaceful, unarmed people. From others, I’m hearing the rage of being systematically unheard, unseen, unwanted, and unvalued, especially by people who don’t even want to know anything about fellow humans because on some level, they can’t feel superior unless someone else can be considered inferior.

Another painful piece is the astonishing, seemingly blind and deaf ignorance of so many of us wannabe helpers about what is helpful and what’s definitely not. We watch a white woman carefully spray paint “BLM” on a storefront, maybe feeling pleased to be pointing out a solid truth, then be dismayed as she’s reminded by a Black woman, “Don’t you realize WE will get blamed for that?” “But I’m only trying to help…” Ouch. I can hear myself saying that at so many times and places through my life. I’m only trying to help, but if I don’t take the time and invest the energy in learning what help would/might look and feel like for the people I’m wanting to help, I can’t be helpful except by accident. If I knew better, maybe I wouldn’t keep offering my simplistic, reflexive idea of help instead of what’s truly needed. We who are people of privilege must be brave enough to open our eyes and our ears and look and listen. Talking about racism won’t kill us but our silence can be deadly.

A Tale Of Two Cats

Fear drives every part of human history. It’s part of our DNA that we share with much of the animal world, particularly prey animals. I thought about that a few days ago, when a wild storm brought explosive, crashing thunder and more lightning than I’ve seen in one day, let alone a crowded hour (turns out it was about 2/3 of our typical annual allotment). While the storm raged, the windows shook and hail slammed the roof like a thousand hammer blows. During all this, one of our cats huddled under a bed, too terrified to poke her head out. The other cat sprawled on a wide windowsill, watching the storm for a while, then curling up for a nap even as hail rattled the window. A few minutes ago, I caught one cat bullying the other, who was backed into a corner of the laundry room, growling a bit but not fighting. She could easily have jumped up on a tall counter (the other cat is too fat to leap so high) but she stuck her ground, looking a little cross but mostly ignoring the aggressor, who threatened and snarled. Surprisingly, the aggressor is the scaredy cat who huddled under the bed, while the peaceable one napped through the noisy storm

Even after a year of living together in a small house, despite the imperturbable cat remaining calm no matter what, the fearful cat remains hyper alert, easily terrified and often aggressive. This morning’s situation reminded my daughter of something H.P. Lovecraft, master of horror fiction, notably said: “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” The entire world is living with multiple unknowns these days, and fear is clearly driving the bus. When we realize that our government is clueless about the results of their action and has no idea of how to help us (or much desire to be helpful to any but cronies), it can feel terrifying. I’ve been afraid for so long now that sometimes I forget al about it, as people do when living through slow-motion disasters.

Let’s Stop It!

After years of relentless abusive rhetoric and illegal, inhumane legislation, many of us already feel helpless. What’s the use of trying? Let’s stop that right now! That is part of The Hateful Plan; we are intended to feel helpless and despairing so we’ll get discouraged and stop working for change. The truth is that little things do add up. Small changes do make a difference. Over time, one honest, clear voice can change many minds and habits for others, who can change minds and habits in turn. Little changes, little ideas, little voices add up and do indeed change the world, if slowly. I often think of a concert pianist friend who said, “Bach’s music is made up of layer upon layer of simplicity.” Layer on layer of small, simple changes can weave the world we want to share. Stop, Look, and Listen. Onward!

 

 

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Decoration Day

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in-and out

Stormy Weather And Silver Linings

This Memorial Day is the most painful I’ve ever experienced. In the past, I thought of it as many people seem to; a national holiday weekend, the beginning of summer, time for relaxing and fun, for picnics and parties. It wasn’t always so light-hearted; in the aftermath of the American Civil War, the last Monday in May was declared Decoration Day, a day set aside for families to visit cemeteries and decorate the graves of their beloved lost. It was a solemn time of remembrance and grief for a country deeply, brutally divided, both politically and socioeconomically. Over time, the day became more of a celebration of ancestors, with families gathering at cemeteries with picnics, weeding and tidying up grave plots, planting bulbs and shrubs. Family graves were decorated with flowers, while those of military men and women were honored with American flags, reminders that their lives had been given for our country. This year, it’s painfully clear that our country is as divided as it has ever been, and the national response to the pandemic is driving us further apart instead of pulling us together.

We’ve become such a mobile society that decorating ancestral graves isn’t so easy anymore. We may live hundreds or thousands of miles from family graves, and many families are more loosely connected than in the past. Though honoring ancestors remains a significant tradition in many cultures around the world, many American have lost the rootedness that made decorating family graves feel natural and comforting. Instead, we watch a kleptocrat mouth empty platitudes about honoring our military, then head back to the gold course while the dreadful virus rips through our VA hospitals and care facilities (13,302 affected so far) and affects thousands (8,950) of actively serving members of the military. People, not personnel.

Grieving Honors The Lost

Today, we can also honor nearly 100,000 Americans who have died in the past few months. Killed by the world-changing pandemic, these people’s lives are a heavy price to pay for our national government’s prideful negligence. That’s a lot of suffering, innocent lives cut short in horrible, painful, terrifying ways and so far, the current regime offers more threats, excuses, and challenges than condolences. I’m sick at heart for nearly 250,000 other people around the world who have died in the pandemic. I’m grieving for their families and friends and coworkers too, for everyone affected by this huge disaster. But wait, there’s more! There is increasing evidence that pandemics are encouraged by ecological destruction. When humans destroy habitat, we come into more contact with wild animals, opening the door for zoonatic disease transmission (diseases of animal origin that can jump to people). And shall we add in wet markets and meat processing?

I’m grieving the lost habitat that opens those doors all around the world, making pandemics more likely. I’m grieving the millions of lost plants and animals, too. I’m also grieving the losses of connection and community that give structure to human lives. The more we value privacy and individual rights, the less interest we have in promoting connection or participating in community. Just as habitat destruction can lead to pandemics, the erosion of community cultures opens gateways to addictions and violence, both based in deep fear. Many studies show that addictions and social terrorism are rooted in the lack of connection and community that’s made worse by trauma and major losses. When we are in dire need of connection, we are most likely to end up in a hospital or mental facility, usually with a constantly changing cast of caregivers.

Silver Linings, Golden Light

Humans need to be in community, yet right now, we can’t safely get together in person. We are having to learn to reach out in different ways, making more phone calls, texting and sending pictures, even writing notes and cards and letters (almost a lost art). We are discovering how to navigate the protocols of online meetings in various formats, learning the etiquette of speaking in turn, observing each other more closely, watching to see who’s waiting to speak, who’s drifting off, who’s feeling bereft, who’s checking their phone. We are learning how to pay attention in new ways, how to listen to what is and isn’t being said.

One silver lining to our social isolation is that when we do connect, the conversation often feels deeper and richer than usual. I’m finding myself listening better these days, inviting insights, feelings, and ideas that emerge more freely in slow, unhurried conversations than in quick check-in chats. I’ve been phone-visiting lately with my mom’s sister, hearing funny, sad, and often enlightening family stories that my mother never shared, the kind that explain a LOT. I’m having deeply rewarding conversations with my fellow Trans-parents, the kind where we hesitate and fumble for words, laugh and cry and laugh again, feeling nourished by recognition and strengthened by understanding. I’m finding peace and comfort in remembering that we are all broken, that humans have always been broken, and that sharing brokenness can bring us closer together. I can hear Leonard Cohen right now, singing my favorite song, Anthem; “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” So let there be light.

 

 

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Gardening In The Time Of Disaster

Friendship is golden

Pressure Drop

How are you managing your days right now? As the weeks and months roll by, there have been so many shifts in my own attitude, from stunned shock to obsessive researching to bone deep grief to overloaded numbness. It’s not quite apathy, but more just a feeling that my circuits are full. This state of being has a silver lining or two; as a reluctant driver, I dread off-island trips, usually freaking out as my tiny car gets buffeted by wind on the high bridge to the Kitsap Peninsula. This week, I found myself halfway to Indianola before I remembered to panic, and by then, it was too late; I just couldn’t find the energy to get upset. I’ve been dropping off plant starts and fresh bread for my family, but keeping my distance, just to be safe, and it usually leaves me sobbing all the way home because I miss being with my grandkids so much. This time, I realized that I wasn’t anxious or fretting at all, the whole time.

On the way home, I figured out that my anxiety pocket are simply full up, topped off by all the fresh disasters that face us every single day now. I drove home without a twinge, wondering if this is how normal people feel all the time when they drive all over the place, as I haven’t been able to do before. In some weird way, the mounting pressure is tapering off and I’m sleeping better and feeling more peaceable. Wow, right? Is homeostasis really so strong that we can get used to pretty much anything? I’m fascinated by the idea that we can be too worried to feel worried, though it does bring back echoes of times when I was caring for dying family and friends-you just keep on keeping on because that’s what there is to do. This time, though, the deep sorrow seems submerged, far below the surface. I feel like a waterbug, skimming over deep, deep water, safe as long as the surface tension doesn’t break. This morning, I recalled that back in February, my doctor described what she and many colleagues were calling a national epidemic of climate and/or political depression. I had forgotten all that, but it’s worth remembering that the pandemic found us already in a state of profound, powerful grief. We went into this crisis fully loaded with sorrows and we humans are only built to bear so much.

Remembering The Mountain

Today is the 40th anniversary of the explosion of Mount St. Helens, a sight I’ll never forget. Along with a few hundred others, I climbed up the old stone water tower in Seattle’s Volunteer Park, peering on tiptoe over the trees of Capitol Hill to watch the roiling, boiling mushroom cloud climb higher and higher into the clear blue sky. Though expected, it was still shocking and terrifying to see such an exhibition of raw power. Even though we were too far away to feel the results directly, just watching the towering explosion expand was an overwhelming experience. I can’t help but think of the pandemic in a similar way, a gigantic, almost unimaginable event that we can only watch in powerless amazement.

Today I’m feeling that our nation and much of the world is like that mountain, with intolerable pressure building up to the bursting point. An explosion is inevitable; how and when it will occur is unknown but occur it will. In my lifetime, there have already been a number of significant blow ups, from the civil rights campaign to a wide range of human rights and ecological movements that have left the old norms teetering. Right now, the current regime is trying desperately to revoke and erase all the progress made in the past century but it’s not going to work. The bad old days were horrible for far too many people, and as the middle class is being systematically destroyed, an even larger majority of people are hurting, frightened, worried and increasingly angry. Something’s gotta give; the result won’t be pretty, but it will be powerful. I pray it will eventually be healing, but it’s obvious that more hurting is on the immediate horizon.

Peace Be With You

Every single day now, I feel exceptionally fortunate to be able to work in my garden. It is preserving my sanity, my balance, my health, in no uncertain terms. When appalling events come too fast and too furious, I can spend a few hours weeding or planting out baby beets and kale starts and feel my building blood pressure drop down. I can work quietly amid the purposeful bees, soothed by their gentle buzzing as they nuzzle each bloom to see if there’s any nectar on offer. Few things are more calming than potting up tomatoes and turnips, interlacing them with Clarkia and Limnanthes, California poppies and Achillea for the native bees, sweet alyssum, cosmos, petunias and marigolds for the honeybees. I’m tucking hardy herbs into cracks and crannies, especially all sorts of oreganos and thymes, which I use in the kitchen all year round. Tiny as it is, the garden is visited by a surprising number of little birds, from juncos and goldfinches to towhees and chickadees, sparrows and mourning doves.

Though this place is a teeny fraction of the size of my former gardens, it provides as much peace and comfort as the acres wide under my care have ever done. From this replenishment, I find renewal, returning strength I thought was all used up. Like a lot of people, I’ve been exploring careful ways to connect with friends who are equally careful, usually sitting together outside, facing the wind, feeling a precious little bit of normalcy. After an outdoor, distanced knitting session yesterday, I told my friend that I felt as satisfied as if we had shared a lovely meal together. Some deep hunger for plain old companionship was now replete and content. When I said, “Friendship is pure gold,” she replied, “Amen.” We need each other, and I believe that we will find a better way forward together.

 

Posted in Hardy Herbs, Health & Wellbeing, Native Plants, Pollination Gardens, Sustainable Gardening, Sustainable Living | Tagged , , | 6 Comments