Where ever I have lived, I have left a raspberry patch. Kind of like Johnny Appleseed, but raspberries produce the first or second year after I plant them. Trees make you wait. In Iowa and Colorado, the raspberry patches spread, bigger and more fruitful every year. The yellow raspberries were especially hardy. In Florida the plants died, red ones, yellow ones black ones, zone 9, zone 10, it didn’t matter. They died year after year. Now, in Pennsylvania, the yellow ones die after a year or two, but the red ones send up shoots and renew themselves.
I’m only listing the places I’ve owned a home. I never planted raspberries where I rented.
I plant the raspberries because I move so often. I need something that means home.
In May, bees came to the flowers. Now, it’s June. In my 2 feet by 10 feet raspberry patch, berries are turning red. I picked some for a guest this afternoon. That gesture – a bowlful of sun-warmed fresh-picked raspberries to share Earth’s bounty – from the gardening catalog, to the Earth, to me, to my guest -- means all is well. We are home.