We recently moved into a house that is almost 100 years old, which means every day feels like a small adventure in charm, character and “what is that sound?”
It has old floors, old doors, old windows and the kinds of quirks you only love after you’ve signed the mortgage paperwork. It also has raspberry vines.
At first glance, they are beautiful. Long, lush, sturdy vines growing in good soil, with plenty of sunlight and the kind of established root system you can’t buy at a garden center. These are not fragile little starter plants. They have been here awhile. They know the yard better than I do.
And yet, for all their beauty and strength, they have produced maybe 10 raspberries. Ten.
For a family hoping for bowls of fresh berries, this feels a bit like false advertising.