Even with an asparagus bed in the back yard, I still do a Euell Gibbons and go out "stalking the wild asparagus." It is so much better than the tame variety. I never understood why until a resident in a nursing home explained it to me. "Dear, it's because it grows exactly where it wants to."
This morning the robins and the cat woke me up early. With no clouds in the sky, it was a good time to take a walk down the trail to my favorite spots. I came home with a bag full of asparagus, but also loaded with information. Yes, the rose-breasted grosbeak is nesting just past the bridge over the Little Henry, Seymour's creek. Bloodroot and marsh marigolds are done for the season, but the wild geranium and false Solomon are now in bloom. In spite of the rainy weather we've had lately, there were no rare morels to be found, but there was catnip to bring home for Rascal. He spent the next few hours stoned.
Once a fellow told me that HE had been picking asparagus along the trail for eight years and perhaps I should look elsewhere. Poor man, I had to explain to him that my grandparents moved into town from the farm the year I was born. My grandfather quickly found the asparagus patches along what was then the rail line. Later when my father bought a farm adjacent to the tracks, he began to get his asparagus there, too. Before he died, he took me along on his excursions and showed me where all the patches were.
Eight years? Nothing compared to decades.
Someday I hope to take Evan along and show him the secret spots I tell no one else about.
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