Summer Gardening

    It was a hot summer day. The katydids were noisy, the air was humid, and the only thing on my mind was the end of the ‘work’ day, when my brother and I could go swimming. The water coming off of the hills was both pleasantly and shockingly cold. But, to me, 10 years old with other things on my mind like reading my favorite book or fighting out my latest combat mission with my toy guns, it was a chance to cool off and wash away all the sweat I had built up all day covering potatoes.

       Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes! That was my life right now. Dad had bought two fifty pound bags for pretty much nothing, the man behind the counter warning him that most of the things were rotten, growing long plantlike sprouts that were reaching up through the wire mesh that covered the galvanized bins that he kept them in. Being poor as we were, dad always looked for any way he could get ahead, whether it meant growing our own veggies or bartering with the neighbors for a slice of their recently slaughtered hog.

       My sneakers were Velcro still. Most of my class had shoes that could be tied, though, even if I swore I knew how to tie, they always make fun of me, saying that I didn’t’ know how to do one of lifes’ most basic things. The Nike sign on the side did little to dispel the aura of poverty that surrounded me, as I usually mismatched my clothes to the point where even Mom rebelled against the clothes I wore. But they were comfy. Usually last year’s shoes were this year’s work clothes. No matter how much they hurt my growing feet. The good news was that as soon as I was done, they were shed right by the garden and I would sprint down to the creek that ran through the bottom of the field, feeling the tickle of the grass on my sweaty feet, until I would fly, airborne for a second before I the surface of the cold water, scaring everything from craw crabs to creek chubs. If only it would come sooner.

        Dad bought the hard fertilizer off of the local feed store, the owner always telling him it was the ‘finest nitrate in the industry’, whatever that meant. I really didn’t’ question much. Mostly, because of his massive heart attack that he had suffered years earlier, as my mom said, my job was to simply load the stuff that he bought. A lot of it was heavy, but I didn’t mind that too much. I mean, time with dad was time with dad. He never complained too much about his heart, which mom said wasn’t very good, he simply worked the old farm and garden as best he could, with what he had. Why would I complain when every minute with him was a gift from God?

       We would always leave with the potatoes, seed, and whatever else in the van, car, or whatever else he could manage on credit, and back to the house we would go. Some days I would get hungry, but if it wasn’t the first of the month with his Disability paycheck then it usually didn’t happen. However, when he did buy the double cheeseburger from McDonalds, it tasted like heaven. But that’s a story for another day.

       So, we’d go home, dad would park and my brother and I would haul the groceries and other items in the house. Dad would look at the different seeds, and with his new planter, he would choose the appropriate wheel to plant the seeds as he pushed it along the fertile soil that used to be a cow barn when he was a kid. I never did understand why he would sit there in his chair, looking at every single seed funnel for the device, trying to figure out which would best suit his newest purchase. Later in life I do understand, he was doing everything he could to make something out of nothing, and passing it on to me in the meantime. He was making the most out of what we had, figuring out what vegetables he could grow to help feed us as his funds from the state were limited, never seeming to get increased, but we always made it through.

       Our favorite foods varied greatly. Mine was the broccoli soaked in cheese, though my brother couldn’t stomach it when he learned that numerous bugs and worms had to be boiled out of it before you could even cook it to eat it. Mom and Dad liked the cabbage, but unless it was boiled, and wrapped around meat, I wouldn’t eat it. Stubborn to the core, I guess. He would go through the radishes, pulling one up to check on the growth rate. If it didn’t match his expectations, he’d wipe the dirt off with his finger, and eat it raw right then and there. ‘Never waste,’ he’d always say. Be damned if I would eat them though.

       Anyway, back to the potatoes. This year was the largest garden we’d grown yet. A kindly old man down the road had plowed it for us, as, for some reason, Dad had never sought his own farm machinery. Sitting here in my chair now, remembering the hoeing, chopping, shoveling, and covering we did, I would have greatly welcomed an old tractor to help out with all the labor my brother and I, my Mom, and my Dad did to just simply grow food to fill our table. For the first time we had four half rows of potatoes, filled to the max. Dad doubted many would grow, as they were half rotten, so we cut all of them in half, buried them and pairs, and sprinkled copious amounts of fertilizer on them. ‘Plant ‘em all,’ he said, ‘we’ll just eat what grows.’ Such was the introduction of ‘Potato Summer.’

       I know I wore the cheapest white shirts for kids one could buy, but I’m pretty sure my shorts were cut off jeans. The old ones I hadn’t managed to completely destroy yet. My brother had at times severe allergies, so he wasn’t required to work outside as much as I did. I remember the sun was shining, dad was hoeing around the corn, and mom had brought us out something cold to drink. My brother was wearing his mask and riding the old MTD riding mower, trimming the yard next to us. However, I would rather hoe all day then do the weedeating, as was my job due to not having the allergies my brother had, as I hated lugging that heavy old Sears contraption that smoked bees out of their hives. Give me garden work any day.

       This day was different. Of all the potatoes dad had planted, every single one of them had grown and more. I still remembered the conversation to this day.

       “Dad, all of them grew?”

       “Well yes, son. All of them, and more. I hope you like potato soup, vegetable soup with potatoes, and mash potatoes. That’s going to be our diet for the next year.” To some people, that may seem like torture. But for me and all the hard work I had done taking care of those plants, it was a promise of good food in the future. Never mind the Silver Queen Sweet Corn that he used to pressure cook for hours. Just slather it in butter and salt and twenty or thirty corn cobs could be thrown outside as mute testament to filled stomachs. Usually the old opossum that lived under the house would eat his fill and leave the rest to rot, of which there weren’t many.

       Anyway, I apologize, I seem to get distracted. So, a typical day in the potato row involves a hoe and a jar.

       What is a hoe you say?

       Well, some old timers call it a spade, but either way it’s a tool that has a long wooden handle, with a metal end that juts down ninety degrees to a flat end. This tool is good for using short chopping motions that tear weeds out of the ground, and shore up small plants that need a bit of support. At first I hated this tool, cursing it down to the depths of hell as it hurt my back and gave my painful sores on my hands. But my dad taught me that it was better to use this than pick the weeds one at a time, saving lots of it as I could pick five or more per swing. Once I realized this, my attitude softened a bit when I went through the rows faster and added more minutes to my play time.

       Now as for the jar. Well, this will sicken some of you but I will tell you anyway.

       My Dad would pay ten cents a bug for every ‘potato bug’, as he called them that we trapped in a jar. They were these little beetles that had orange head, and black and white stripped wings. Not that creepy, but they had numbers on their side. We used to fill Mason jars with them, which I’m sure we were underpaid for, and then take them down to the creek and feed them to the minnows and Creek chubs that inhabited the shallow water. Still, $5 dollars a jar was enough to buy a couple buckets of plastic army men, which would allow for hours of fun when coupled with setting them up in the corn rows, each stalk standing in for a pillbox or some other fortification that could be taken with heavy casualties from the Tan Army, the Gray Army, or whichever color combination I had left over after I had a suitable attacking force. Which, by the way, was usually the Roanoke 1^st Regiment, for whatever reason?

       After my brief garden military campaign was always the harvesting part. Dad taught me early to grasp the husk (the green outer part) and the silk (the thin yellow hairs) of the corn to shuck it properly. This went on for hours during the harvest day, which was usually followed by stringing green beans or helping Dad put the various veggies into canning jars, of which he always added a teaspoon of salt. From that point on, we would retire to the living room and watch Star Trek: The Next Generation at 7 PM sharp, while Dad sat in a chair in front of our gas stove, watching the weight on top of the pressure cooker as he canned whatever vegetables we had harvested for the coming winter. As I sat there on the wood floor, I remember thinking one thought.

       Well, next spring, we’ll do the same thing again….

       I used to hate that life, wondering why I couldn’t go out and hang with my friends. I always was lagging behind in the trending TV shows, as we only had the one channel. But, again, as I grow older, those days come to memory and I realize the things that it taught me. Every job I’ve ever had I’ve always been labeled as a hard worker. I never quit until the job is done. Also, my Dad’s old adage of ‘waste not, want not’ still stands true today as I continue to make ends meet in my own household with four kids, twice the amount my parents had to raise. My Dad is long gone now, but my childhood of ‘typical days in the garden’ continue to stick with me, reminding me of the benefit of working for your own good and providing for your family…