Feet in the Dirt

Traditionally at our house every year at the beginning of the growing season, the rototiller would be brought out and our two plots of garden dug up. One was very large, and the smaller square one had awesome dark soil. Usually, it would be Saturday evening, and round and round the garden in ever-tightening squares the hard ground was transformed into beautiful, fluffy (if such a word can be used to describe dirt) brownness. We loved it. We followed along behind Mom or Dad as they rototilled, and then we would race around the rows of dirt in our bare feet. It was one of our favorite parts of gardening.

I felt bad for Kristen, for she's never had the experience, and the boys may not remember. It's been four or so years since we put in raised beds and no longer till a big section.

So, when we decided to redo a pretty large section beside the house, I smiled as Kristen followed Mom as she dug it up.

Before she came out, I took some pictures of the daylillies piled in the wagon and the chives we saved out of the patch, and Mom rototilling.

Kristen came out, saw Mom, and following the tradition of her mother and siblings before her, she trodded after her rototilling parent.

She thought she was funny waving away in front of her face because she didn't like the smell.

When she found some bulbs from the daylillies left in the dirt, she said, "Jeannettie, I found a section of those things! Take this section!"

But she didn't seem to realize the proper way to enjoy the situation, so I said, "Kristen," motioning because you can't hear anything with the rototiller going, "take your shoes off."

Finally she understood and slipped off her flipflops.

 She smiled, feeling the dirt between her toes.
"Does that feel good on your feet?"

Apparently so.

She asked me, "Did you walk in the dirt?"

"Yes, many times."

"Where are your footprints?"

"Not today. When I was your age."

"Oh. Are your footprints still there?"

With a secret smile, I replied, "No."

"Why not?"

Then she said, "Come in the dirt with me."

"I have shoes on," I said.

"Take them off. Please, Nettie. Come in the dirt with me."

So, I slipped off socks and shoes and for the first time in several years, walked in the lines of the rototilled soil.

"We used to have races in the dirt," I told her. She smiled, took the idea, and ran with it. (I thought of saying that before I realized it was literal.)

I took pictures, and she cooperated well, though begging me to race most of the time.

A fall in the soft dirt is fun!

She showed me the iris around the corner. "Jeannettie! It's blooming!" (Does she know that word? I'm not sure. Anyways, she pointed it out to me.) She always smells the flowers. "Did you smell it, Nettie? It smells good."

The flower has been open for several days. I murmured an assent.

"Smell it, Nettie," she insisted.

So I complied, and I was surprised by how strong a scent the iris had.

Then she told me the wild geranium was blooming too. It has been for well over a week, I believe. "Smell it, Nettie," she said. I hadn't smelled this one either, and again was surprised.

Thenardier, this poor chicken, was bothered either by Roman, Diffidence, and Featherfoot or Kristen. She can catch the chickens better than anyone else. She made me hold a stick in case Roman came after her when she tried to pick up "Miss Bawk Bawk", their name for Thenardier.

(Thenardier is pronounced ten-ARE-dee-eigh, and is the last name of the innkeepers in Les Miserables. I had to look up Thenardier's name to remember it.)

  

Poor chicken. First she pulled its neck back, for me to take its picture, I think.

Then she pulled its beak apart.

Then she held it together. "Look, Jeannettie, it doesn't do anything when I do this."

Then she started hitting its beak. "Do you hear that weird sound?" she asked. It did make a funny sound when she did it.

"Kristen!" I said. "Leave the poor chicken alone. Would you want someone to pound on your nose?"

She tried it, and, "It doesn't make that wierd noise," she said.

"Okay, Miss Bawk Bawk. You can go now." From one torture to another-Roman and Featherfoot were immediately after her.

(Featherfoot was originally named Lily St. Regis-from Annie, the "dumb hotel". That was before we knew he was a rooster...)

I suggested going in; dinner had been done for a while. "Did you guys do lots of races?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well, we should do lots of races."

Thinking of how I would have wanted to, I agreed and we raced a bit more.

We drew lines in the dirt for the finish line, but someone kept cheating by skipping half of the track.

Then we went in for a yummy, if cold, supper of grilled lemon chicken, broccoli, and grilled garlic potatoes.

We went back out afterwards, and walked a bit in the small square garden with the dark soil. I was cold and would have gone in, but Kristen said, "You can put a coat on," and unable to resist her pleading, I did.

My feet enjoyed remembering that unique feeling of cold dirt on your feet as the sun's going down, and in the small plot, the wonderful feeling of dirt that still has lingering warmth gathered from the sun. When I returned inside, washing my feet stung. Some warm furry socks felt very good to feet that had been bare in the dirt.