(no subject)
Okay, I have not been around much. But you know, I have been busy or so it seems.
A few items from the everyday life from me.
The change in Trapper started slowly. What was once a mad dash to the lake now took forever to accomplish. The walks ended in shorter periods of time often with Trapper exhausted. The walk back up the hill was a struggle. One day Trapper collapsed and could not get up. I nearly lugged him back up the hill. Somehow he managed to command his legs to work and he ended my misery. I for my part ended his misery and the walks to the lake stopped.
He slept more each day. I began to notice his food was untouched for days. When he could barely walk to the backyard, I called the vet. I expected to be told he had some sort of virus, or that he had arthritis. I expected to be given an arsenal of medications that I would have to disguise in his food. I never expected to hear that he had cancer and kidney failure. I asked the vet what we could have done differently with him to have avoided all of this.
“Nothing,” the vet said very gently. “He is a thirteen year old dog. It just happened.”
The vet came the next day to perform the last kindness we would ever give our big mutton headed dog. True to form, he was a good boy and gave the vet his complete cooperation. He was ready, I think. He had not enjoyed being the only dog. He had been part of a pack for so long that being alone was strange to him. He went peacefully.
I have cried each time we have had to perform this and this time was no exception. I will say, I think the cry was a bit harder and longer this time. In part, I think it was because I was losing the most loving dog of the group. Trapper was the one dog who genuinely enjoyed being with people.
I think I also was mourning an end of an era. After eighteen years there are no dogs in this house. I suppose in the future there might be. At this time, I don’t care to have one. I know that sounds callous, but I cannot see ever being able to replace any one of the dogs we had without having comparisons leaping out. Could I ever be as lucky to have another dog with half the personality that any one of these five had? I doubt it. I also am not sure I want to invest that much of myself into a critter. When the day comes, and it always does, that we have to say good-bye it tears me to shreds emotionally. In the past year, it has happened four times and I don’t want to experience it any more.
A few days later, I purchased some very nice solar lights. Five of them to be exact. They have mosaic lanterns and at dusk they produce a wonderful soft light in the yard. They represent the five dogs we had and how each one lit up our lives. I watch each night as they start the glow that will last until morning. It is nice to remember each one of those mutts this way.
Our cat has been using us, or so we thought. She had been spending her days prowling about the yards of our neighborhood in search of prey. The skies are filled with young birds learning the ways of the avian world. The squirrels have made a playground of our trees. Lizards and toads have made their appearance. All of this gives our cat the opportunity that every feline desires. A good kill. The cat stalks all with equal amounts of zest and precision. Her kill ratio would be higher if were not for me chastising her for her feline traits.
We noticed she was spending less time in our presence and more in the yard or on the roof or somewhere outside. She entered the house only to check her food and water and then leave us. She would be gone for hours and would not come when I called for her. Eventually the hours gave way to days and my worry escalated to the near panic.
I got into the car and drove around the neighborhood looking for her. Some might consider me foolish at using $3.80 per gallon gas for this task but I did have a lot of ground to cover. I slowly made it down the streets calling kitty-kitty-kitty as I drove.
It is a good thing that I have little or no pride.
I turned down the nearest cul-de-sac to our house and there I found her. She was prone on a brick wall in front of a house, looking quite regal and a bit surprised. She had no idea why I would be out looking for her, I suppose. It was then I realized which house she was at. It was the dead woman’s home, the one where our cat had grown up.
Now no one has lived there in over a year. In the fall, the dead woman’s family came and cleaned the house out. They put down new carpet and hung drapes. However, the house in entangled in a probate fight and the likelihood that it will be lived in any time soon is slim. I really have no fear that anyone will decide that the cat will tempt anyone to take her in. All the same, I was a bit hurt that an empty house held more fascination for her than our home.
I picked her up and drove back home with her. No easy feat either. Ever driven with a cat in your lap? After I parked the car and opened the door she made a grand leap from my arms and preceded me into the house, meowing all the way. I opened a tin of smelly, wet cat food and fed her. She gobbled it down and meowed for more. I imagine this may have been closer to an act of feline blackmail on her part and I happily paid her extortion. Later she joined me in the bedroom as I watched some television. She pranced over me and the cushions, purring and talking. I suppose she may have forgotten how nice the bedroom is. She fell asleep and I did too. We spent a quiet afternoon together.
I woke up and she was gone. She had escaped out the back door and had disappeared once again. After some thought I have decided that like many of us she is just returning to those places that hold memories for her. I never got along well with the dead woman when she was alive, but that does not mean the cat had a hard time with her. Fond or otherwise, we can’t help but return to plowed ground. So I guess I will be hiking down to the end of the street daily to find her and bring her back. I will be like Demeter searching for Persephone in the underworld. Only when my feline Persephone returns home it will not bring the spring and flowers but smelly cat food and purring among the cushions of my bed.
I can live with it.
I decided to watch the sunset on early evening. We have had some spectacular ones as of late and I have enjoyed the calm this time of the day seems to cast on me.
I opened the door and for some reason looked to the left where the wall of the courtyard is instead of looking straight out where the sunset would be. I was surprised to find a small bird sitting there. A young one too. He was all crouched up, trying to make his body as small and invisible as possible. He was nervous too. I doubt he had ever seen a human so close to him.
I leaned over to inspect my visitor and when I did he rose up and walked down the length of the wall. I could tell right away he had the strut of a dove. I have seen them in the backyard visiting the bird feeder. Unlike the other birds that will straddle the feeder to grab a sunflower seed the doves will pick the fallen seed off the ground. They are the recipients of great bounty when the squirrels attack the feeder. The squirrels are messy in their eating habits and spill nearly as much seeds onto the ground as they may eat. It is a wonderful relationship if you think about it. Everyone gets to eat.
So after deciding that the bird was walking the walk of a dove I managed to get closer and see the tell-tale markings on the face and wings. Oh yes, there was the very round black eye surrounded by the white ring. And the neck, when he allowed it to rise above his bird shoulders, was long and graceful. The one thing he was lacking was the long narrow tail. I guess the young’uns have to grow them.
After a few phone calls to bird watchers and experts that I know, I was told my guest was a fledging that may have been separated from his parents. Even after a young dove can fly a bit, he will remain with the mom and dad until he is fully able to fend for himself. More than likely, I was told, he had been in a ground nest that had been disturbed and he flew off in a panic.
A wave of guilt washed over me. I had been in the backyard that afternoon cutting back dead branches off the palmetto bush. I may have been the disturbance. I was told not to fret and let him be. The parents were most likely looking for him and would find him. All would be right then.
I walked to the backyard to see if there were any frantic parents looking for a fledgling. Indeed there was a pair of adults swooping about, cooing and calling in what seemed to be a parental fit. Of course, there was also a little gray cat lurking about the yard at the same time. The little sweet faced killer was monitoring the movements of the parents with evil intent.
Now I really did not worry so much about the parents, but the baby was giving me some cause for alarm. Letting him fend for himself overnight did not seem a smart thing to do. There are hawks, owls and little gray cats galore in the neighborhood that would find a small dove a tasty morsel for a midnight snack. I had to take action since I may have been the cause for all this misery.
In the house I found a small box. I stuffed it full of shredded paper from our office shredder. I have wondered how to recycle this stuff for months. The box and shredded paper made a lovely little nest or so I thought. What really mattered was how my fledgling would see his temporary lodgings.
Catching my little charge was really no problem. Putting him into the box was easy too. And for a brief time, keeping him in the box was pretty simple. At some point, and I am not sure how or when, he decided a human hand holding him down in shredded paper was not a good idea and he flew. Of course we were in the living room when this happened. These things never happen when you want them to. The bird made some rather pitiful attempts at escape, most of which consisted of flying into the walls. I was able to snatch him up and return him to the shredded paper nest and whisk him away to the screen porch. I settled him down on a chair where he seemed to calm down a bit. I plugged up the cat door and closed the slider. For one night he would rest out in the screen porch. In the morning, when the threats of killer birds and murderous cats would be exposed in the daylight, he could safely return to the wild.
I will admit to having left bed to check up on the fledgling. He seemed to have accepted his shredded paper nest. Either I would find him sitting in the middle of the nest or perching on the edge of the box. I suppose eventually he might have discovered he was safe from the night marauders. Perhaps he had even heard the coo of his parents who had to be close by. Or so at the time I hoped they were close.
The next morning I ran to the screen porch to check on my charge. He had flown from his nest and was clutching the screen close to the ceiling. I suppose the lure of the sunshine and the great outdoors had lured him from the safety of the paper shreds. He may have been vexed by the screens, being able to see through them but not able to fly through them. After some wrangling, I was able to nab him and bring him outside. He fluttered from me and landed on Miss Helen’s chain link fence. It would have been a good perch if it had not been for a lurking gray threat in the yard. The cat was flattening herself to the ground in the pounce mode and was ready to have dove for breakfast. Well, those were her plans before I scooped her up and brought her into the house. Her protests could be heard blocks away, no doubt.
Later that afternoon I returned to the screen porch and did an eye search of the yard. My little fledgling was no longer on the fence and for a short time I could not find him. It was only when I looked into Miss Helen’s yard did I find him. There he was sitting on the roof of her screen porch and he was not alone. Beside him sat an older dove. Mother? I could not tell. They were soon joined by another older bird. It was then the feasting began for the fledgling. The family was united. I mean, I don’t think doves adopt little ones that are not theirs, so presuming this seemed logical.
I have not seen my little bed and breakfast bird since then. I have no doubt he is fine. It is always a good thing when families are together again even after short separations. For these birds, the overnight stay of their little one might have been a lifetime.
I hear them, you know. There is cooing among the trees right before each sunset. It is a calming sound that I enjoy.
Every year I manage to purchase something from the plant nursery I have no business trying to grow. This year was no exception and my choice was a blueberry bush.
Normally what will happen with such purchases is that I will fuss over the new plant for months. I will water, fertilize, trim, move from one side of the yard to another, show it off to anyone who comes near and eventually kill it. I decided this year the blueberry bush would be the recipient of all this attention. However, this year was going to be different. The bush would survive. Of course, I say that every year with each plant that I have no business having. However, my effort was going be successful this year only because I was not going to expect anything from this poor little plant. I knew that I would not have any blueberries this year. Maybe next year with a fully mature plant but not this year. Yes, it would be this mature attitude that would insure the bush’s survival.
So the ritual of spring began. I purchased a new huge pot for the blueberry bush. Even if the little bush was nothing more that a twig with a few leaves on it, this was not going be so by the end of summer. I read the box the bush came in and made sure that the soil was moist but never drenched. I arranged for the bush to have the proper amount of sunlight. If I could have carried the massive pot into the house on cool nights I would have. Instead I sheltered the plant in the nook of the house so cold Northern winds would not disturb it. By gosh, I may not have a bumper crop of blueberries this year but I would have a fine healthy bush that would bring me baskets of the fruit next year. All of this care would work!
One night at the restaurant I walked past a young couple who were seated in my section. I told them I would be right with them and finished with another guest. As I walked back to the table where the young couple was sitting I overheard something that made my soul go stone cold.
You know you won’t ever get any blueberries, the young woman said. You have to have two bushes so they can cross-pollinate.
THIS CANNOT BE.
I introduced myself at the table and mentioned that I had heard this tidbit of information.
Yes it is true, she answered. You have to have two blueberry bushes to have blueberries. One will not produce fruit. They have to pollinate each other.
It seems that I, a grown woman of fifty some odd years, never thought about the sex life of a blueberry bush. I mean I remember the birds and the bees lecture from years ago…I just must have ignored the part about the flowers needing pollination. I just wanted to jump to the good part I suppose.
I looked at the young man who had the same sad look of realization on his face. A thought crossed my mind.
Where do you live? , I asked.
As if we were connected psychically, the young man perked up. He knew exactly where I was going.
North of the city, he replied. My heart sank. He lived too far away to tote my tiny blueberry bush in its massive pot.
I live in the South, I said. His face returned to the same sad look as before.
Yeah, well you and I are too far apart, he answered clearly disappointed.
Yeah, his companion said. She patted his hand. You know long distance relationships never work out.
We could get more bushes, I said perking up.
They are all gone, he said. I looked for more today and they were sold out.
FOILED! There must be hundred of homes all over St. Johns County with one blueberry bush in the yard. Hundreds of sad sacks like myself who were under the delusion that perhaps not this year but certainly next year blueberries would be produced. Never considering for one moment the cross pollination of these plants had to happen before one berry would form..the shame of it all. Or maybe the truth really was that it was only me and this young man who did not think about the sex life of blueberries.
Since that time the blueberry bush has sprouted a few more leaves. It seems happy in its humongous pot. I was afraid other plants might think it stuck up or foolish with all this room and not a whole lot of growing. I planted some oregano in the same pot with it. They seem to be getting along fine. Why not? Odd couples make fine matches some time.
And by the way…I did not make the same mistake when I bought blackberry bushes. I got two of them. They are together in one pot in the front of the house. I will insure that blackberry sex will happen and we will have blackberries this year.
A few items from the everyday life from me.
The change in Trapper started slowly. What was once a mad dash to the lake now took forever to accomplish. The walks ended in shorter periods of time often with Trapper exhausted. The walk back up the hill was a struggle. One day Trapper collapsed and could not get up. I nearly lugged him back up the hill. Somehow he managed to command his legs to work and he ended my misery. I for my part ended his misery and the walks to the lake stopped.
He slept more each day. I began to notice his food was untouched for days. When he could barely walk to the backyard, I called the vet. I expected to be told he had some sort of virus, or that he had arthritis. I expected to be given an arsenal of medications that I would have to disguise in his food. I never expected to hear that he had cancer and kidney failure. I asked the vet what we could have done differently with him to have avoided all of this.
“Nothing,” the vet said very gently. “He is a thirteen year old dog. It just happened.”
The vet came the next day to perform the last kindness we would ever give our big mutton headed dog. True to form, he was a good boy and gave the vet his complete cooperation. He was ready, I think. He had not enjoyed being the only dog. He had been part of a pack for so long that being alone was strange to him. He went peacefully.
I have cried each time we have had to perform this and this time was no exception. I will say, I think the cry was a bit harder and longer this time. In part, I think it was because I was losing the most loving dog of the group. Trapper was the one dog who genuinely enjoyed being with people.
I think I also was mourning an end of an era. After eighteen years there are no dogs in this house. I suppose in the future there might be. At this time, I don’t care to have one. I know that sounds callous, but I cannot see ever being able to replace any one of the dogs we had without having comparisons leaping out. Could I ever be as lucky to have another dog with half the personality that any one of these five had? I doubt it. I also am not sure I want to invest that much of myself into a critter. When the day comes, and it always does, that we have to say good-bye it tears me to shreds emotionally. In the past year, it has happened four times and I don’t want to experience it any more.
A few days later, I purchased some very nice solar lights. Five of them to be exact. They have mosaic lanterns and at dusk they produce a wonderful soft light in the yard. They represent the five dogs we had and how each one lit up our lives. I watch each night as they start the glow that will last until morning. It is nice to remember each one of those mutts this way.
Our cat has been using us, or so we thought. She had been spending her days prowling about the yards of our neighborhood in search of prey. The skies are filled with young birds learning the ways of the avian world. The squirrels have made a playground of our trees. Lizards and toads have made their appearance. All of this gives our cat the opportunity that every feline desires. A good kill. The cat stalks all with equal amounts of zest and precision. Her kill ratio would be higher if were not for me chastising her for her feline traits.
We noticed she was spending less time in our presence and more in the yard or on the roof or somewhere outside. She entered the house only to check her food and water and then leave us. She would be gone for hours and would not come when I called for her. Eventually the hours gave way to days and my worry escalated to the near panic.
I got into the car and drove around the neighborhood looking for her. Some might consider me foolish at using $3.80 per gallon gas for this task but I did have a lot of ground to cover. I slowly made it down the streets calling kitty-kitty-kitty as I drove.
It is a good thing that I have little or no pride.
I turned down the nearest cul-de-sac to our house and there I found her. She was prone on a brick wall in front of a house, looking quite regal and a bit surprised. She had no idea why I would be out looking for her, I suppose. It was then I realized which house she was at. It was the dead woman’s home, the one where our cat had grown up.
Now no one has lived there in over a year. In the fall, the dead woman’s family came and cleaned the house out. They put down new carpet and hung drapes. However, the house in entangled in a probate fight and the likelihood that it will be lived in any time soon is slim. I really have no fear that anyone will decide that the cat will tempt anyone to take her in. All the same, I was a bit hurt that an empty house held more fascination for her than our home.
I picked her up and drove back home with her. No easy feat either. Ever driven with a cat in your lap? After I parked the car and opened the door she made a grand leap from my arms and preceded me into the house, meowing all the way. I opened a tin of smelly, wet cat food and fed her. She gobbled it down and meowed for more. I imagine this may have been closer to an act of feline blackmail on her part and I happily paid her extortion. Later she joined me in the bedroom as I watched some television. She pranced over me and the cushions, purring and talking. I suppose she may have forgotten how nice the bedroom is. She fell asleep and I did too. We spent a quiet afternoon together.
I woke up and she was gone. She had escaped out the back door and had disappeared once again. After some thought I have decided that like many of us she is just returning to those places that hold memories for her. I never got along well with the dead woman when she was alive, but that does not mean the cat had a hard time with her. Fond or otherwise, we can’t help but return to plowed ground. So I guess I will be hiking down to the end of the street daily to find her and bring her back. I will be like Demeter searching for Persephone in the underworld. Only when my feline Persephone returns home it will not bring the spring and flowers but smelly cat food and purring among the cushions of my bed.
I can live with it.
I decided to watch the sunset on early evening. We have had some spectacular ones as of late and I have enjoyed the calm this time of the day seems to cast on me.
I opened the door and for some reason looked to the left where the wall of the courtyard is instead of looking straight out where the sunset would be. I was surprised to find a small bird sitting there. A young one too. He was all crouched up, trying to make his body as small and invisible as possible. He was nervous too. I doubt he had ever seen a human so close to him.
I leaned over to inspect my visitor and when I did he rose up and walked down the length of the wall. I could tell right away he had the strut of a dove. I have seen them in the backyard visiting the bird feeder. Unlike the other birds that will straddle the feeder to grab a sunflower seed the doves will pick the fallen seed off the ground. They are the recipients of great bounty when the squirrels attack the feeder. The squirrels are messy in their eating habits and spill nearly as much seeds onto the ground as they may eat. It is a wonderful relationship if you think about it. Everyone gets to eat.
So after deciding that the bird was walking the walk of a dove I managed to get closer and see the tell-tale markings on the face and wings. Oh yes, there was the very round black eye surrounded by the white ring. And the neck, when he allowed it to rise above his bird shoulders, was long and graceful. The one thing he was lacking was the long narrow tail. I guess the young’uns have to grow them.
After a few phone calls to bird watchers and experts that I know, I was told my guest was a fledging that may have been separated from his parents. Even after a young dove can fly a bit, he will remain with the mom and dad until he is fully able to fend for himself. More than likely, I was told, he had been in a ground nest that had been disturbed and he flew off in a panic.
A wave of guilt washed over me. I had been in the backyard that afternoon cutting back dead branches off the palmetto bush. I may have been the disturbance. I was told not to fret and let him be. The parents were most likely looking for him and would find him. All would be right then.
I walked to the backyard to see if there were any frantic parents looking for a fledgling. Indeed there was a pair of adults swooping about, cooing and calling in what seemed to be a parental fit. Of course, there was also a little gray cat lurking about the yard at the same time. The little sweet faced killer was monitoring the movements of the parents with evil intent.
Now I really did not worry so much about the parents, but the baby was giving me some cause for alarm. Letting him fend for himself overnight did not seem a smart thing to do. There are hawks, owls and little gray cats galore in the neighborhood that would find a small dove a tasty morsel for a midnight snack. I had to take action since I may have been the cause for all this misery.
In the house I found a small box. I stuffed it full of shredded paper from our office shredder. I have wondered how to recycle this stuff for months. The box and shredded paper made a lovely little nest or so I thought. What really mattered was how my fledgling would see his temporary lodgings.
Catching my little charge was really no problem. Putting him into the box was easy too. And for a brief time, keeping him in the box was pretty simple. At some point, and I am not sure how or when, he decided a human hand holding him down in shredded paper was not a good idea and he flew. Of course we were in the living room when this happened. These things never happen when you want them to. The bird made some rather pitiful attempts at escape, most of which consisted of flying into the walls. I was able to snatch him up and return him to the shredded paper nest and whisk him away to the screen porch. I settled him down on a chair where he seemed to calm down a bit. I plugged up the cat door and closed the slider. For one night he would rest out in the screen porch. In the morning, when the threats of killer birds and murderous cats would be exposed in the daylight, he could safely return to the wild.
I will admit to having left bed to check up on the fledgling. He seemed to have accepted his shredded paper nest. Either I would find him sitting in the middle of the nest or perching on the edge of the box. I suppose eventually he might have discovered he was safe from the night marauders. Perhaps he had even heard the coo of his parents who had to be close by. Or so at the time I hoped they were close.
The next morning I ran to the screen porch to check on my charge. He had flown from his nest and was clutching the screen close to the ceiling. I suppose the lure of the sunshine and the great outdoors had lured him from the safety of the paper shreds. He may have been vexed by the screens, being able to see through them but not able to fly through them. After some wrangling, I was able to nab him and bring him outside. He fluttered from me and landed on Miss Helen’s chain link fence. It would have been a good perch if it had not been for a lurking gray threat in the yard. The cat was flattening herself to the ground in the pounce mode and was ready to have dove for breakfast. Well, those were her plans before I scooped her up and brought her into the house. Her protests could be heard blocks away, no doubt.
Later that afternoon I returned to the screen porch and did an eye search of the yard. My little fledgling was no longer on the fence and for a short time I could not find him. It was only when I looked into Miss Helen’s yard did I find him. There he was sitting on the roof of her screen porch and he was not alone. Beside him sat an older dove. Mother? I could not tell. They were soon joined by another older bird. It was then the feasting began for the fledgling. The family was united. I mean, I don’t think doves adopt little ones that are not theirs, so presuming this seemed logical.
I have not seen my little bed and breakfast bird since then. I have no doubt he is fine. It is always a good thing when families are together again even after short separations. For these birds, the overnight stay of their little one might have been a lifetime.
I hear them, you know. There is cooing among the trees right before each sunset. It is a calming sound that I enjoy.
Every year I manage to purchase something from the plant nursery I have no business trying to grow. This year was no exception and my choice was a blueberry bush.
Normally what will happen with such purchases is that I will fuss over the new plant for months. I will water, fertilize, trim, move from one side of the yard to another, show it off to anyone who comes near and eventually kill it. I decided this year the blueberry bush would be the recipient of all this attention. However, this year was going to be different. The bush would survive. Of course, I say that every year with each plant that I have no business having. However, my effort was going be successful this year only because I was not going to expect anything from this poor little plant. I knew that I would not have any blueberries this year. Maybe next year with a fully mature plant but not this year. Yes, it would be this mature attitude that would insure the bush’s survival.
So the ritual of spring began. I purchased a new huge pot for the blueberry bush. Even if the little bush was nothing more that a twig with a few leaves on it, this was not going be so by the end of summer. I read the box the bush came in and made sure that the soil was moist but never drenched. I arranged for the bush to have the proper amount of sunlight. If I could have carried the massive pot into the house on cool nights I would have. Instead I sheltered the plant in the nook of the house so cold Northern winds would not disturb it. By gosh, I may not have a bumper crop of blueberries this year but I would have a fine healthy bush that would bring me baskets of the fruit next year. All of this care would work!
One night at the restaurant I walked past a young couple who were seated in my section. I told them I would be right with them and finished with another guest. As I walked back to the table where the young couple was sitting I overheard something that made my soul go stone cold.
You know you won’t ever get any blueberries, the young woman said. You have to have two bushes so they can cross-pollinate.
THIS CANNOT BE.
I introduced myself at the table and mentioned that I had heard this tidbit of information.
Yes it is true, she answered. You have to have two blueberry bushes to have blueberries. One will not produce fruit. They have to pollinate each other.
It seems that I, a grown woman of fifty some odd years, never thought about the sex life of a blueberry bush. I mean I remember the birds and the bees lecture from years ago…I just must have ignored the part about the flowers needing pollination. I just wanted to jump to the good part I suppose.
I looked at the young man who had the same sad look of realization on his face. A thought crossed my mind.
Where do you live? , I asked.
As if we were connected psychically, the young man perked up. He knew exactly where I was going.
North of the city, he replied. My heart sank. He lived too far away to tote my tiny blueberry bush in its massive pot.
I live in the South, I said. His face returned to the same sad look as before.
Yeah, well you and I are too far apart, he answered clearly disappointed.
Yeah, his companion said. She patted his hand. You know long distance relationships never work out.
We could get more bushes, I said perking up.
They are all gone, he said. I looked for more today and they were sold out.
FOILED! There must be hundred of homes all over St. Johns County with one blueberry bush in the yard. Hundreds of sad sacks like myself who were under the delusion that perhaps not this year but certainly next year blueberries would be produced. Never considering for one moment the cross pollination of these plants had to happen before one berry would form..the shame of it all. Or maybe the truth really was that it was only me and this young man who did not think about the sex life of blueberries.
Since that time the blueberry bush has sprouted a few more leaves. It seems happy in its humongous pot. I was afraid other plants might think it stuck up or foolish with all this room and not a whole lot of growing. I planted some oregano in the same pot with it. They seem to be getting along fine. Why not? Odd couples make fine matches some time.
And by the way…I did not make the same mistake when I bought blackberry bushes. I got two of them. They are together in one pot in the front of the house. I will insure that blackberry sex will happen and we will have blackberries this year.