Breaking Ground

Every Spring, around mid-April my father would start a line of smoldering fire along the edge of  the garden.  With big fans of brush he kept control of the burn, beating  back  flames when they flared up, keeping the fire in line to wipe the slate clean of last year's debris and begin to break the will of tender new weeds,so determined to take over the soil.  The ground was left blackened. Like a battlefield it stared back at us, daring us to even imagine that life could thrive there again.
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The tiller sat in our barn all winter long, its clay covered tines rusting solid, making  more work for my father after the last frost finally came and melted away again.  Every spring if you were playing in our yard, you would have heard our father muttering under his breath as he oiled the tines, fueled up the engine and worked feverishly to get it to run.

Time to break ground  seemed always to arrive earlier than he expected and the dogged tiller would sputter and cough like an old man being stirred from a long nap before its will gave way to his tenacity and finally started up with a loud, low, intimidating rumble.

The ground was no more eager to cooperate.  The wildness of Springtime yearned take over the ground. Kudzu and Morning Glory stretched across the rigid red Earth, Weeds and crabgrass took hold as quickly as they could.  Nothing innate is easy to disrupt. The  newly thawed soil fought back hard against my father's will to soften it.  His only weapon, the tiller; a plow of sorts now powered
by gasoline and brawn, though in years past the same ground gave way to the hooves of a mule and the bare feet of a farmer's boy, my father before he knew me.Vines wrapped around the tiller's tines, choking the engine, causing it to sputter and my dad to curse.  Rocks refused to budge to its churning weight. Wet red-clay clung to the tiller's spikes and caked up on my father's big bare feet.  The ground's resolve to remain in it's natural state though, never matched my father's zeal to conquer it.

Planting time was a family affair.  Usually one or all of us girls would high step through the mud behind our father, knees to our chests as we pulled our feet out of the warm, soft dirt.  We took direction from him, never doubting that he knew which job was best for each of us.  We planted one row after another until dusk turned to early nightfall and the soil cooled beneath our feet.  Whatever seed was left to sow would have to wait for the sunshine of another day.

First came the tomatoes.My father dug the deep holes and I followed behind him with jugs of water, so heavy I could barely wield them, and  filled the holes before he dropped in the plants, then my sisters came behind and covered the roots, patting the soil firmly around the delicate plants with their bare hands.  One after another, row after row, the process was the same.  Then beans, corn, watermelon, cantaloupe, cucumbers, peas...Until finally the whole swath of land was neatly ordered with columns of expectation. After the work came the prayers and then the wait.

In a few weeks the once desolate, weed infested, stubborn piece of ground would transform into a virtual Eden of burgeoning plants.  They would give us sustenance not only for the Summer and Fall, but throughout the winter as well. The work of growing never quite done, my father labored tirelessly, sweat dripping into his eyes and off the end of his nose as he pulled weeds and stood the corn back up after a night of hard wind and rain.  He taught us all the value of a hard Summer's work and a lifetime of perseverance.  Through him we learned that every season of growth requires change and that change always comes at a price.

Our garden was more than just a hobby for my dad.  It's necessity maintained our humble lives, taught us deeper truths than we ever learned in Sunday School and in its most elemental function, fed our bellies so we could forge ahead.  The ground gave way and life renewed sprung from it every Spring: but  only because my father's will was stronger than the will of the tiller, of the weeds and of the ground itself.  He knew the potential that lay buried beneath the rubble of last year and the overgrowth of careless Spring.  With deliberation  he wiped out the uselessness that took over our garden between the growing seasons and replaced the scraggly worn out fragments of yesterday with brand new Purpose.