Dear Eddie: I have always known that you have a special relationship with dirt. I have always enjoyed your being my garden boy and the beautiful things you grow. At the same time, I have done my share of griping about dirt, mud, tracks, and all. Today, I realized that something had shifted in my attitude about you and dirt. (yes, I know it is soil).
Two dirt related things happened this morning. I was fluffing last night’s load of clothes before folding. I knew that load would be followed by yet another day’s load. There would be one set of my clothes and at least three sets of yours. It is plant the garden, get ready for Farmers’ Market season. One set of wet stinky work clothes follows another. They may be too wet even for your taste, but you are also thoughtful enough to decide that they are too muddy to come in for lunch or reposo. Icky clothes; yet, I smiled. And, then, right there inside the back door, between the door and the mat, I spotted one perfect, very distinct, size 11 shoe print on the champagne carpet; yet, I laughed. You are totally comfortable with dirt. I have decided that comfort with dirt is one of your most endearing characteristics.
When I got you, I got Tom Robertson’s greenhouse child. When our two-year-old son was selling “million-dollar petunias,” at Dad’s greenhouse, Pete’s Auntie Ruth said, “Well, Eddie was always the dirtiest little boy in Grayling.” And so, it continues with you and dirt. When we were courting, I remember a trip to Aunt Nellie’s farm to “get a load of dirt.” It was my first time to really watch you and dirt. No bags from the garden center. You cut sod, broke the blocks apart with your fingers and shook out the dirt. You were patient, meticulous, enthralled. Year after year, I have watched you condition flower beds, lifting bulbs, trenching in compost, planting again. Last week, we took apart the sand box in our yard and moved it to our daughter’s home where the kids reassembled it into a raised bed. Two shoveled Mighty Max bedloads of compost, one of garden dirt and another of sand followed. You tilled it all to uniform consistency ready for planting. I texted our grandson that Papa had brought him dirt for his birthday, and he responded, “Yay!” Auntie Ruth’s jibe hurt your feelings a little bit, but you and dirt are really something wonderful to behold.
I asked myself why I am so much less grumpy about you and dirt. Heck, I’m grinning about you and dirt. I think that growing and sharing beautiful things is a way you care for my love languages. It takes dirt. You make our home beautiful. In the big orchid bloom, there were orchids on the mantel, orchids in the bathroom, orchids in the kitchen. In the vases on the back of the kitchen sink, chives and mint have made way for roses and daisies. And I experience all of that beauty as your gifts of service, of appreciation, of love.
Our family knows their gifts of dirt, of potting soil, vermiculite, and peat pots never disappoint you. The seedling mixture with coir was perfect for your winter greenhouse babies, and you have repeatedly said so. You and I have been basically at home for seven weeks due to Covid-19. The closest to a quarantine crisis we have had is needing Potting Mix. Trying to limit social distance, I heard you say, “I’m cutting myself off from dirt.” Sure, that really lasted; we stopped for three more bags this morning.
Keep playing in the dirt, darling one. Love, Sylvia
