Dirt will improve your outlook.

My summers on the farm, learning lessons from the ground up.

Last seasons garden gloves were exactly where I left them, in my friend’s shed, crusted in dirt, little crumbs of mud and pebbles falling out. Pulling them on felt promising. It’s too early in the mid-Atlantic to get serious about planting anything, but it IS a good time to clean out the flower beds and see what decided to survive for another season.

Maybe a love of dirt is in my DNA…. my great grandmother Mae, had a magical green thumb. Good thing, too, since her half acre vegetable garden provided most of what her family ate in rural Missouri. You name it, she grew it. Ever heard of salsify? (It’s a root vegetable from the dandelion family, also called Poor Mans Oyster… makes a fabulous casserole.) But I digress.

It’s hard for people today to grasp just how important a vegetable garden was to farm people. No Trader Joes nearby. They planted it, nurtured it, ate it, and canned it. Trust me… to pop open a jar of freshly picked tomatoes in December is culinary heaven. Nothing like it.

Wooden bushel baskets of fresh potatoes were stored in a cold dark basement. I’d ride on the back of grandads tractor and as he plowed the row, I’d jump off, find potatoes in the ground, and toss them in the baskets. I suppose this was a bit dangerous, but I survived... and thrived.

Fiesty little Mae was a master gardener for sure. Out of necessity and out of love. And, even though the house is gone, her plantings are still coming up all over the property… and I’ve been able to save much of it. Iris, Tiger Lily, Daffodils, Wild Rose…. almost in homage to her, they push up for another season. Here’s Mae in her flower garden, right off her room in their house. She spent a lot of time out here.

Mae passed away in 1973 when I was 18, and I didn’t know her as well as I should have. I do know I’m very lucky they saved so many photos and letters from their time, like this one. Mae was such a wordsmith! ❤️

I have no idea when she wrote this. Was it a note for herself? Was it a letter, and if so, who was the recipient? I think it says a lot about her character.

“In short, my garden gives me solace and quietude from a world of turmoil and strife. It is the one spot in my life, where after the world extracts 10 or 12 hours of work, both physical and mental. I can gather to me a contentment and respite that try as I may I cannot duplicate in any other manner. Yes, there is something warm and intimate in working with good growing earth, and why not? Does not life itself stem from the very earth? So when I plant my garden I feel privileged to stimulate to life the tiny live spark deep within each seed. I love seeds. Small specks endowed by God with power to bring forth living testimony of natures greatness.”

Here, she’s my supervisor as I prove to her I can be useful with a shovel. 😂 She was 77 years old and I was two.

As an apartment dweller in the city now, my only good window is stuffed with plants. My friend has 2 acres in the burbs and he has let me play in his dirt, plant perennials, and do the big spring big clean up.

There’s such an accomplished feeling to tackle a mess of weeds and leaves and turn it into something beautiful. It teaches you to be patient as you concentrate on the work at hand. Hot, dusty, and grimy, plopping down on a deck chair and cracking an ice cold beer, I survey the project with immense satisfaction.

After being sedentary for almost three weeks with this damn knee injury, it was almost euphoric to get outside Sunday, get dirty, and catch some sun. It gave me some hope. What a mood booster.

I just hope I did Mae proud.

THANK YOU for being here… there are so many great writers on Substack and I’m grateful you chose to spend a few minutes with me.

One more as Mae admires her blooms. What a treasure she was.