Thanks, Dad…

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It is Father’s Day. My Dad would be on my mind today for that reason alone. This time of year, though, there are many things that make me think of him. The weeks of spring and early summer were Dad’s time, when he brought his expertise at farming and gardening into practice for his large family, and when he showed tremendous patience in sharing that knowledge.

It was in the spring when Dad would bargain and trade for truckloads of manure, often delivered in steaming mounds when he was at the shop, where he worked second shift as an electrician for Chevrolet. Mom would direct the driver to dump it at the edge of the garden, and downwind from the house. In the spring, Dad would be up at the crack of dawn, and out on the tractor early, to till and enrich the stubborn clay soil. Spring, he’d plot out the garden, and start pounding in stakes, running twine down the rows, and putting in plants and seeds.

The peas can be planted as early as Mother’s Day, and replanted every two weeks for a longer harvest. When planting corn, your hand, stretched out from thumb to pinkie finger, can be used to space the kernels down the row. After planting a hill of squash or pumpkins, run both hands through the surrounding earth to make a circular depression, to hold the water there. A thick mulch around squash, melons and tomatoes will hold the moisture, and keep the weeds at bay. Some things I learned because Dad taught me; others I picked up just from watching him.

Still, today, when I’m working in the garden, it seems like Dad is right there, at my side. I’ll puzzle over something for a minute, and then the answer will come. It seems, always, to come from Dad. Did it arrive as a distant memory, fresh in my mind just when I needed it? Or did my Dad, so present in my garden, just convey that bit of wisdom to me? Either way, he surely had a hand in it.

A few years ago, I answered a question posed by a friend on why I garden:

I garden for the connection…to the earth, yes, but also…
…to my father, gone now almost twenty years, and the memories of the first little garden he helped us plant. I can see him, still, cutting the furrow in with the hoe, and letting us – tiny children – measure with our hands to space the dried peas and beans, then helping us to cover them over and tamp down the earth…
…to my mother, who would accept our meager bowls of berries or beans and figure a way to incorporate the little bit we hadn’t already eaten fresh into a dish for the whole family…
…to my children who, when I realized children benefited from watching things grow, caused me to abandon my plans to “never step foot in a garden as an adult”, and helped me to know that we all benefit from getting our hands in the earth…
…to other gardeners everywhere who, I find, are related to me through our connection to growing things, whether we have another single thing in common or not…
…and not only presently, but through time, for I can relate to Henry David Thoreau or E.B.White or Celia Thaxter when they speak of their gardens, as if they were sitting here with me today…
For all of this, I garden.

These reasons hold true for me, still, and on this Father’s Day, it feels important to note that my Dad’s influence was the first on the list. Thanks, Dad!

About cindyricksgers

I am an artist. I live on an island in northern Lake Michigan, USA. I have two grown daughters, four strong, smart and handsome grandsons and one beautiful, intelligent and charming granddaughter. I live with two spoiled dogs. I love walking in the woods around my home, reading, writing and playing in my studio.

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