Thursday, October 13, 2011

Until next year

I tilled the garden this weekend – not once, but twice. The first was to grind this year’s remains into the ground. The second time was to add about 10 bags of leaves to the soil. These leaves were special – you might even say imported. They were a gift from my daughter, Jennifer, who lives in town with her new husband Adam.

Growing up in the country Jennifer rarely had to rake leaves. Out here on the farm we use the mow and blow method: chop the leaves up with the mower and let the wind take them when and where it wishes. But that method of yard work is frowned upon in town, so she and Adam bagged up the leaves that had fallen on their yard and generously shared them with me.

When they had completed their end of the bargain I went to town and picked up the bulging bags. At home I quickly spread the leaves on the freshly cultivated soil. I had to hurry, less the gift to the garden would blow away to parts unknown.

Jennifer used to work the farm garden with her mother – now she has her own smaller plot in town. So this year I was a “husbandman,” an old term meaning farmer, gardener. So I helped my wife in the harvesting of tomatoes and carrots to empty the ground before the tillage. As the Lord says, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.”

Before I modernized with a tiller powered by the tractor I used to have what is commonly referred to as a walk-behind tiller. But walking suggests a peaceful pastime, and that does not describe my former tiller. Instead it handled like a team of wild horses trying to escape. A rear leaning 45-degree stance was required to engage the tiller in battle. By the end of a leisurely day in the garden my forearms were like rocks, my back was shot and my legs quivered with fatigue.

But turning over soil has become an easy chore since I purchased an attachment for my tractor. I call it a tractor because that’s what it is, but Mary, Mary quite contrary, my tractor looks like a toy next to real farm tractors. So I guess I’m playing farmer.

True, I live in an old farm house and have a barn, but I am not a farmer – I do not possess their massive machinery or skills.

The farmers in the area are busy. Their trucks and tractors pulling wagons go back and forth on the normally quiet avenue. The combines with their bean heads raise dust in the fields and on the roads as they reap what they have sown. Soon they will come back outfitted to collect the corn. They will be gone soon, along with the 80-degree October days. I wave as they pass.

The 80-degree plus days in August are normal and expected, so I take them for granted and think about cooler times. But in this clime, those temperatures in October are rare and fleeting, so I soak up the sunshine as I go about my business. If I knew it was the last time I would see such warmth for six months or more I may treat the day differently.

I can find contentment in a day spent reading and writing, but as the old saying goes, “A man of words and not of deeds is like a garden full of weeds.” Land must be turned, garden hoses and pumps have to be drained and put away, and snow removal equipment must be made ready.

So I toil in the soil and make provisions for the cold. The garden has been put to bed and patiently awaits the heavy blanket of snow that will surely come. Till next year.

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