Dirt

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

I love the dirt. I am at home in the dirt. I look down at my dirt-covered hands and I am proud of the way they reflect the joy of my work, their aging wrinkles and creases perfectly etched. My fingernails gladly proclaim their soil adornment, and I know that the knees of my jeans shout out their fashionable polish. "She may have gray hair, but she can still kneel and get back up."

I am certain that many people don't understand the joy I find in dirt. I know that I didn't understand it when I lived in the city, but then I never met real dirt. All I knew was the greasy soot that covered my childhood windowsill and the hard packed grassless patches in the city parks. Back then I did not know that dirt and grime were two totally different things. Now I know better.

The past 20 years of living and farming in the creek valley have taught me so much. I've learned the wisdom of the cliche that dirt is the foundation of all living things. I do understand. I can walk out into our fields and bend down and scoop up a handful of dirt, and know that it will succor next year’s harvest.

And of course I tend to my dirt, rotating my crops so not to deplete it, and nurturing it like the living thing that it is. I try not to tire it out. I feed it rich compost. And oh the joy of reaching into my compost and pulling out a handful of dark, nutrient-rich dirt. Worms wiggle in the palm of my hand, though they don't actually wiggle. They stretch out full length and then contract and then stretch towards the edge of my hand until I set them down. They are robust and fat. Their composted soil crumbles easily and falls through my fingers. If I raise it to my nose, I can inhale its hearty scent.

Yes, I love the dirt, but that is not to say that I love what happens to it when it gets wet and turns to med. Add a bit of rain to my precious dirt, and it turns quickly loses my adoration.

For many of us, this past summer was amazingly dry. It seemed that it hardly rained from June through September, and then, when rain finally did fall, there was so little that the creek stayed dry. My chore boots stayed dry as well. My garden suffered, though I confess that I was thankful mud was nowhere to be seen. 

There was no need to wash our chore bouts at the spigot. There was no mud to track into the house, but I must confess again. Another cliche has come to mind, though this is perhaps a reverse cliché.  It has occurred to me that this summer's cloudless, mud free, days did have their silver lining.

Come October, the weather cooled, and now into November with its freezing nights, the valley mornings are covered with heavy dew. Rain has even fallen, and the creek runs full, and yes, mud has returned to the valley, my boots, and my floors.

With the cooler weather I find myself wearing not only warm jackets, but my leather chore gloves as well. My hands stay toasty, but sadly my fingernails are no longer lined with dirt. I no longer need to scrub under them when I come inside after chores, and as I take my gloves off, I imagine the worms tunnelling deeper into the compost pile to stay warm.

The seasons change, and yes, the dirt changes too. Now I am looking forward to the long freeze, when the mud will freeze solid, and my boots and floor will once again stay clean. I will fall asleep each evening, dreaming of the time when the seasons change and I'll be able to work the valley's soil once again with my wonderfully dirty hands.