Read by Michael Flamel

They all go marching down—through the beds, where they evict—the tomatoes, boom boom boom. The canes go marching three by three, the little one stops to take a, eh—rest—and they all go marching down— to the cars—where they drive off—with the keys, boom boom boom. . .

Like many men, I garden because of women. When I was in college in Philadelphia back in 19#&—gee, wonder what happened there, well it wasn’t all that long ago (i.e.—dino- saurs no longer roamed the earth), the best possible ‘day date’ was a trip to semi-nearby (i.e.—limited to women who had their own car, ‘cause I sure as Hades didn’t) Longwood Gardens. Several trips to this horticultural showplace (an overused term, but an under- statement here; love them man-eatin’-sized water lilies!) even led one college girlfriend to trust me with the delicate work of removing sod and turning soil (that had last been trod upon by dinosaurs [alright, cave bears—but BIG ones]}); one of the two things that men are good for (performed entirely in the hope of being called upon for the first one you thought of).

Of course, what with me being a male of the species (STEERIKE 1!), a college student (STEEEEERRRRIIIKKEE 2!), and, in addition, the unique assemblage of personal DNA strands I happen to be (YOU’RE OUUUTTTAAA THERE!), I was not to be trusted with such delicate, nuclear-physics-level work as weed-pulling, much less actual (gasp!) planting. So my only involvement in gardening back then was in Alabama-chain-pang, serving-five-to-ten-at-Woolworth’s fashion. (Of course now realize that such tedious, exhausting and exquisitely painful physical labor ac-counts for approximately 97.8% of the actual time spent doing what we laughingly call Gardening and wish that J had a per-sonal Troglodyte at hand to tote that barge and lift that rock(s) and get everything ready so that I could appear late in the day, shove a few plants in the ground and then yell at the Trog not to go near them… .)

Anyway, soon afterwards (OK, about a decade later—what are you, a cop?) I met my wife, who I not only took to Longwood [a), my repertoire was limited; b), it almost always worked; and c), I really liked going there, too], but who also came pre-wired with extremely fond memories of visits to her grandparents’ farm, where she recalled eating raspberries without limit all summer(s) long. They were then, are now, and apparently always will be, her favorite food.

Well, a visit to the actual site (and to the memories of some then-adult relatives) revealed that the ‘farm’ was actually a normal single home on a slightly larger than normal lot—that was, however, located in an area that was mostly rural and even still-slightly-farmish then (and is, unfortunately, pretty much completely concrete, asphalt, and large colorful plastic signs now). Everyone, however, agrees that the remembered raspberries were real, numerous, and delicious.

So we were raspberry bound. The only question was when, and the answer turned out to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 1985. We had bought our country home, I had carved a crude garden area out of the uncaring wilderness and was now busy trying to formulate a plan of attack against the cursed multiflora rose that surrounded said c.g.a. like New Joisey does Manhattan. It occurred to me—one of the few true 150 watt incandescents to ever appear above my personal sentience—that my only hope was to rip it all out (the multiflora—not the c.g.a. or my personal sentience) and then quickly re-place it with something even MORE weedy, tenacious and invasive.

So I mail-order some raspberries, which arrive—sometime after their having joined the choir invisible—with a note explaining that “your bare root plants may look dead, but .. .”, which should have said, “your dead plants may just look bare root, but…”

Three replacement shipments (and a full season) later, I am once again noticing that my latest batch of dead dried-up stick-like things have not yet been visited by their only possible hope—a plant-resurrecting grandmother-with-wings from a Disney movie—when Bruce Huie, a neighbor whose presence has already insured that my family has indoor water, wanders by to say “Say, you wouldn’t want any raspberry plants, would you? Sue and I have to pull up a couple hundred young ones that are trying to move into the tool shed… .”

Big red HERITAGE; super-sweet ‘yellow’ FALL GOLD (which actually take on a beautiful White Zinfandel blushy pink color when ripe)—aah, raspberries at last. We get a few to nibble on that fall. Then more in the spring (Garden wisdom: mow down all canes in the fall to protect against disease; McG version: Only remove old canes when they are so ancient they become fire hazards).

Then a pretty nice size crop that fall. Then almost enough to satisfy us the following spring. Then enough. Then REALLY enough. And then enough plus enough to put in a blender, whiz, whiz, and freeze up in pints for the winter when they would be mixed into the chocolate birthday cakes batter (yes, and it tastes even better than it sounds), By the sixth or seventh year, we are awash, berry, berry happy. But by the end of year eight or so, we are behaving less like legendary genteel gardeners Ruth Stout or Scott Nearing and more like Aah-Nold, as we unwillingly star in our own little Horticultural Action Adventure: Sweat-soaked, shirt ripped, watching our automatic weapons fire bounce off the thorny little chests of the invulnerable canes as they advance like an invading army of rogue plants from the planet Krypton—rapidly saying Hasta to OUR (gardening) Vista, bay-bee…

Around year ten, heedless to the lessons of WWII, we try appeasement—abandoning the entire back row of raised beds, save for one small safe zone that the UN has established, and to which they regularly ship blankets and butter. We fill this isolated outpost thickly with transplanted volunteer garlic (our second most numerous edible weed, with potatoes of uncertain parentage running a close third), do a stuntman’s roll into the nearby gully, and leave the giant monsters (rampant canes and pungent bulbs) to fight it out: Godzilla vs. King Kong! Mothra vs. Bill Gates! The garlic line holds; America remains strong.

We are now in our 12th or 13th year—approximately five seasons past the point where gardening book wisdom insists our ancient raspberry patch has died of disease—and have become Sigourney Weaver in a dark room in a damaged spacecraft with a broken flamethrower watching the Alien-filled shadows for signs of movement. And seeing plenty of it.

The crop this year is already (late spring as I tap these words into my keyboard with the tenderness of a professional boxer) HUGE, with the canes acting—I didn’t think it possible—even more aggressive than in previous seasons. Luckily, the trenches are dug, the moat is filled, the gators are all loosed and … what’s that? Huh—sounds like something scratching at the door. Sorry .. . be right back… .

Hello? Who’s there? Hey! What’re those long green thorny slithery things? Hey!!!! Umph! Oof! Whack! Take that! Slash! Ouch! Scratch! Ouch again! Smack! Scratch! Hey! Why you—wacka, wacka, wacka!!!

Whoo! That was close—good thing I had my machete handy (like Karl Malden sez: Never leave the keyboard with-outit!)…—And it’s a REALLY good thing raspberries taste so good!

Hey! Stop pushing those tomato plants into the drive-way! Yeah! I’m talking to you! Sorry, gotta go! See ya next time,

Hey! Leave that Car alone!!