In the Dirt

I walked into the kitchen at the farm holding a bundle of radishes with sweat dripping from my white smeared sunscreen face, "I love this Mom.  Like really really love it." 

Gardening.  It's in my blood to garden.  To spend time sitting in the dirt with myself as company.  To have the permament smidge of black dirt under my fingernails.  To feel the breeze blowing on my skin while the sun warms my bones.  To intrinsically know what makes each plant tick; what they need and when they need it.  I'm not quite there yet.  But one day I might be. 

I am where I love spending my hours out in the garden.  Even in the one hundred percent humidity with ninety-nine for the heat index.  Sweat pooled on  my smeared white sunscreened face and bugs stuck where they landed on my nose and my hair felt the frizz and my forehead wrinkles were apparent. 

But I was happy.     

Happy as a lark sitting in the dirt freeing the lettuce and carrots from the radishes and the weeds.  With every tug it's as if a fraction of that thing, soul-inner self-whatever you refer to it as, is freed.  And I can't help but wonder if my grandma felt that same way.  Felt like it was a time when all was right with the world.  No matter the stresses she was going through of being a newlywed trying to come out of the Depression era with something, raising babies while working as a teacher and farming with Grandpa, watching her teenage daughters try to find themselves, and then letting go of her daughters as they spread their wings to do their own living, wondering if she'd done it all the right way, making the transition to each stage in her own life.     

This gardening thing is work.  Hot and dirty.  But it's work I find myself loving.  There are many times now that I've done some growing up I wish my grandma was here.  Here to sit with me while I tug at the radishes.  Here to tell me why the peas are turning yellow.  Here to share with me the happiness that comes from standing at the end of the row knowing that you just freed those plants to do their thing.  Here to see the love for the dirt she had is in my blood after all.       

When I was a kid, I remember waking up in the summer mornings and knowing to trot out to the garden because that's where I would find my mom.  Spending her quiet time before the rush of the rest of us brewing and needing and wanting started among the dirt and plants.  My young self thought she was crazy; thought sleep was the best way to spend a morning.  But now I get it.  Totally get it.   

Traditions are beyond important to me; I believe they are the way in which we find and keep our identity.  I enjoy when Momma Debi says things like, "Are those pea plants wet?  You should never pick weeds or produce when it's wet because it causes mold." 

After I ran into the house with radishes and nerdily professed my love of gardening, I walked back out to find Dad-o with a hoe in his hand, weeding the corn while he kept an eye on the grain being loaded into the semi.  "Dad, it's so fun to have a garden.  It seems like forever since it hasn't been too wet." 

He stood up straight, "It's so fun to grow crops again Amy.  It's been too long since we've been able to grow.  It's feels good to work and see it matter again." 

There you have it.  Traditions.  I'm learning and soaking it all in with the hope that one day I will pass the torch. 

I have a ways to go before I'm ready to completely fly solo in the growing realm.  The very morning these radishes were picked, I sprayed an entire jug of Round-up I stole from the farm in the shop on my landscaping rocks, driveway, and sidewalks.  Then I called Momma Debi and said, "Was I supposed to add water to that Round-up?  I feel like maybe I should have."  Her answer was, "Well it's one pint per five gallons of water for an acre of land." 

Which means I made a mistake.  One which could cause some seriously dead grass instead of just dead weeds.  Time will tell. 

But I know this.  We laughed about it being yet another one of those Amy things which seem to happen.  There's another torch I hope I will pass on.  Knowing the value in laughing at yourself and your follies instead of fretting or stewing or yelling or blaming or stomping your feet.  Take responsibility, admit you made a mistake, laugh, laugh again, and move on.  While taking notes all along the way.