Read by Matilda Longbottom

MMy fondness of dirt started when I was very young: making dirt tracks for Matchbox cars (and leaving them out in the rain), building mudpies by the creek (then pouring water on them to watch them melt away)—and more. My mother once said that I brought more dirt into the house than the dog. She was right. Once I even brought a whole mudpie into the house, dripping its sloppiness all over the kitchen floor. I also loved digging my fingers in the freshly tilled mounds of my grandparents’ garden and letting the dirt run through my fingers. My grandfather took notice and started to teach me the importance of dirt in the garden.

My grandfather, whom I called “Pap,” taught me that it was our job to keep the dirt healthy and free of weeds. He taught me the difference between good and bad soil. I still remember watching the clumpiness of clay versus the softness of topsoil when he pushed them through his weathered fingers. He showed me how the earth cracks in the heat of the sun, when to water, and how it swelled when you’re done.

He taught me our family’s Native American lore on how to learn from weather, saying, “Moccasins wet in the morning, will be dry by night. But moccasins dry in the morning, will be wet by night. But be sure to go out early before the sun fully rises.” Once my father was planting grass and sent me over to ask Pap how much time we had before a coming storm. Pap stood at the porch rail and quietly surveyed. He smelled the air and lit his pipe to watch the smoke. Then he pointed to the leaves on the trees, spoke of what to look for in the smoke, and told me to close my eyes and smell.

He said, “You’ve got two hours to plant that seed.”

Two hours and five minutes later, as we were wrapping up laying hay over the seed, the rain began to fall. I spent a lot more time asking him about weather after that day!

Pap was raised on a farm. When his older brothers left for World War II, he left high school to take care of the farm. He was the youngest of 12, and his father was no spring chicken. They had a decent-sized farm with grain, cows for meat and milk, and chickens. The farm wasn’t for profit, though. Back then, if you didn’t farm; you didn’t eat. Having a garden was essential to him and his family.

I loved to watch him work—to my little eyes he was a superhero. He’d be covered in dirt and sweat from rototilling the entire garden in one day, wipe his brow, and quietly look over the garden with pride. He’d be still for a bit, then give a nod as if to say, “It is good.” Then he’d pat the dirt off his pants, put the tiller away, and say, “Tomorrow, we plant.”

On the days the garden was flourishing, he would touch the tomato plants, smell his fingers, and sigh. Then he’d give me a wave to do the same. We’d harvest the crops when it was time, and stop mid-pick to feel the wind or watch a hawk fly. Then he’d rub the top of my head and get back to work. I learned early, talking too much made him sigh and want to go inside. You worked, you connected to the dirt, and allowed your mind to be still.

Even though he was the one working it, he still called it “her” garden. It wasn’t my grandmother’s, though, not really. My grandmother loved the food, and she loved canning the garden’s bounty, but she hated to get dirty. One of my favorite memories with her is sitting together on her porch swing with giant bowls of beans on our laps. She was glowing with glee, singing, and snapping green beans. I do believe I ate more beans than I snapped. Sometimes, I still do. We would sing, laugh, snap, and swing. I once caught Pap smiling and watching us from the garden, then getting back to work with greater fervor, as if seeing our enjoyment was his reward.

He may have been a man of few words, but he taught so much by his actions. Pap preferred to listen rather than speak. He literally lived out the Bible verse I was taught as a kid: “Be slow to speak and quick to listen.” He may not have always said how he felt, but I knew. I could feel it just being in his presence. And while others had their time and connection with him through hunting and gunsmithing, it was always the garden that brought us together. It was the one place I had him to myself and experienced so much peace and beauty. It was Our Peaceful Place.

NNow as a wife and mother of two beautiful children, I still like to get barefoot and play with the dirt. I love sharing the things Pap taught me with my own children. And my dear husband may actually love gardening even more than I do. I swear we are expanding it every year. It’s wonderful to share it together as a family.

Although I enjoy sharing the garden, I still also like the quiet alone times in it, weeding, watering, or just being still. Especially early before the dew has had time to evaporate. I pause to rub the tomato plants and sniff. Then I am back at that little garden by the creek where I learned to grow. Our Peaceful Place.

Sometimes when I visit there, I hear Pap say, “You’ve got two hours to plant that seed.” ❖