The Saturday Journal: Planting Taters--Seedtime and Harvest
This time of the year always reminds me of Sandy. He was a smaller dog with white and brown shaggy hair. I’m not sure of his breed–that’s the way most of the dogs my brothers and I had as children–the "no name" breeds–mutts we called them. My grandpa would often refer to our mutts as “sooner” dogs. And I’m going to leave that right there–with no further explanation.
My childhood home was bordered by my Great Aunt (my grandma’s sister, Lena) and Great Uncle’s home and then my Grandma and Grandpa’s place joined them–we were all within walking distance of each other. And you would have thought being family and all, and living that close together with over fifteen acres between us, that we would have shared one gigantic garden–but oh noooo!!
Each family had one big garden–with shared laborers–me and my siblings being part of that “free” labor. And in each of our gardens we planted the same thing! Green beans, sweet peas, corn, tomatoes, peppers, squash, turnips, radishes, cucumbers, cabbage, and lots of taters–white potatoes which was always Kennebec, they would keep longer they said–some sweet potatoes, and a few red potatoes–my Daddy’s favorite.
I can remember the ole timers talking about how you would fail miserably as a gardener if you didn’t get your taters in the ground by a certain time–meaning sometime between February and March. Well, my family of gardeners would have none of that. Daddy and my Grandpa and Great Uncle–they would get out their old rusty tillers–those with the horsepower of a mule–pull on the cord about a hundred times until finally–that tiller would jump up like a bucking horse–smoke rolling and whoever was driving had better hang on. It was like a wrestling match–machine versus man. Us kids were never allowed to drive the tiller–we couldn’t anyway. We were what you called, the hoers, and dirt clods and rock gatherers. It was our job to pick up the rocks and large dirt clods which could possibly get in the way of a potato sprout breaking ground.
My Mama and Grandma and Lena would cut the seed potatoes just right–making sure every potato had at least one eye–maybe more. And once the rows were plowed just right–and cleared for planting–then my brothers and I would drop the seed potatoes every few inches–then we buried the seeds–hoeing one side of the dirt over the other–creating a hill of sorts–a potato hill.
And we had other garden work–planting and harvesting during our summer break from school. Pick green beans–string green beans–be careful not to leave any strings–break the beans into nice sizes–not too big. Shell the green peas–and don’t eat too many–the raw ones will give you a belly ache. Get every silk off the corn cob. Now, I am going to argue this–it simply can not be done.
Daddy loved the radishes out of the garden. He would pull radishes right out of the ground–give them a dusting with his hands and eat one or two–dirt and all. And every so often a black snake would take a sun bath in our gardens–my Mama would yell, snake! And Daddy would pick it up by the tail and sling it in the woods–
Our dog Sandy was our baseball playing dog. If we hit the ball across the road–which was considered a homerun–Sandy would run and grab the ball and bring it back to us. He served as our extra player in the outfield. But sometimes he would get confused–like when it was time to dig the potatoes. One of the jobs me and my brothers had during the harvesting of the potatoes was digging them out of the hills with our hands and then placing them in buckets. We also had to get rid of the spoiled ones. Loving baseball as we did–we would throw the culls in the woods and Sandy thought it was a game of fetch–bringing the potatoes back to us. It was a happy game until that worn potato turned into a nasty rotten kind of stink.
I can’t say we enjoyed all this garden work–it was hot and dirty work. It took us away from riding our bikes–playing ball, and getting into other mischief. Mama did leave us in charge one day of gathering tomatoes when she and Daddy were at work. I’m not sure who started it, but the siblings decided it would be a good idea to have a tomato fight, right there in our sunshine-colored yellow kitchen. My advice--just don’t try it. It didn’t end well for us.
But at least we didn’t do like the kids up the road in our neighborhood. Their parents left them at home with a bushel of green beans–string and break the beans while we are at work–that was their parents’ orders–that’s all they had to do. And they did the work–until they got tired–and buried the rest of the beans. That didn’t end too well for them either.
We all got older–Mama and Daddy and my Grandpa and Grandma–Great Aunt and Uncle–us kids, and we stopped growing three big gardens. In fact several years had passed since we had a large garden at my childhood home. It was the summer of 2004 and I had been working on a special writing project for one of my college classes–visiting women-owned farms in the mountains. Inspired by the ways they nurtured their gardens–grew vegetables in different ways from our family garden, I asked Daddy and Mama if we could till up a little soil and plant a garden in their back yard. And this time, I said, let’s grow green beans on teepees made of bamboo poles–plant some carrots–jalapenos, and all the usuals–except for potatoes–February and March had already passed. They agreed and the next day Daddy cranked up his four-wheeler and rode off to the pond to cut down the cane poles we needed.
I can’t say our green beans were a big success that summer. You see, one of the lady farmers made “bat tea” which is a liquid fertilizer from bat guano. And I bought some of this “tea” and yes, it smelled to high heaven if you are wondering. And sadly we had zero green beans that year. I don’t believe it was the "bat tea" as much as it was me pouring the fertilizer too close to the roots. Our poor green beans never had a chance.
There was this door that God shut--with Noah and his wife, their three sons and their wives safely inside--along with the animals--two of every kind. And after the flood--after the ground had dried, the day had come for the door to be opened. The same door that God shut--He once again opened. He told Noah to go forth--step outside and bring your family--all the animals, every creeping thing--every bird. Step out onto the new ground--dry ground--a new garden after the long hard days of the flood. I can only imagine--stepping out barefoot in the tender cool grass--seeing the beauty of the earth.
Noah then built a altar to give thanks and the scriptures say, "the Lord smelled a sweet savour" (Genesis 8:21). In my heart I believe we get a glimpse of this sweet savour--every spring--every summer--the smell of fresh cut green grass--the scent of the earth after a spring rain.
And God told what was to come--"While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and the day and night shall not cease." (ch. 8:28)
The months of tater planting time is hard--waiting on spring is hard--one day it's the heat of the sun we have desperately missed and the next few days--days of thunder--rain--snow. But spring is coming as God said--seedtime and harvest, and perhaps God has asked you--asked me to take each day as the blessing of life that it is.
For as a child---our summer days were filled with the love of a good mutt--with play and digging in the dirt--working--learning alongside our family in the garden. It was only for a little while. And yes, as a child those days of summer--they seemed long. And looking back--a lifetime, that's been oh so short.
While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter,
and day and night shall not cease.
Genesis 8:28
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