For Love of the Soil

As long as I can remember my father has been gardening.... because those big fields one must maintain with cultivators, discs, spray coupes, and combines aren't quite close enough to the dirt, I suppose. We had a garden in our backyard as a child and when the soil didn't yield as much we moved it south (perfect time for putting in an in-ground swimming pool, I liked to point out... but no one listened to me). That garden was bookshelved by raspberry bushes and strawberry plants with runners shooting out everywhere.

In 6th grade I became a strawberry girl, just like the book I loved by Lois Lenski. And that was my first job. I earned $300 or so for my efforts and really the work was sweet. I have always love strawberries for their taste and for the memory of that experience. I remember keeping my profits in an envelope in the silver chest at the bottom of my mother's china cabinet. Later transferring it to savings in a bank in town that today is nothing more than part of the Super Value parking lot.

Now my dad has the south garden and three other smaller plots to the east where no garden has grown before. He is experimental. He plants many varieties... at different times... he keeps track. As demonstrated, in an earlier post... he remembers rainfall. His earliest planting this year was Good Friday and he's already yielding some small potatoes and onions. With our meal, we had fresh asparagus... but that grows behind our house every year without any coaxing at all.