The Rites of Spring
He was a wiry little man with a
thick salt-and-pepper moustache and he wore bib overalls and a railroad cap. He
spoke with a heavy accent, which my mom identified as German. His dump truck
looked like it was built by hand on a very old Ford chassis. The mechanism that
lifted the bed was a jerry-rigged cog and chain contraption that he cranked by
hand, and the sides of the bed were made of two-by-fours and plywood. Onto this
strange looking rig, he could load ten yards of steer manure, which he
delivered to our house on Russell Street every spring.
The delivery generally took place
on a weekday when my dad was at work, so my mom took care of having the load
dumped in our driveway and paying the man for his goods. Mom loved to tell the
story and I always thought she was exaggerating. That is until I witnessed it
several times when I was home on spring break. That gentleman really could go
on a five-minute rant about “…the best shit in town.”
My dad’s vegetable garden was his
pride and joy. He was an Arkansas farm boy and I suspect that gardening put him
in touch with his roots. We had a narrow strip of grass that ran along the back
of the house, ten feet wide at the most, then the rest of the yard—maybe fifty
by sixty feet—was given over to vegetables. Dad raised several varieties of
lettuce, squash, and beans. There were root crops like carrots, radishes, and
turnips. He also raised Swiss chard which was one of my favorites. But without
question, he poured the greatest measure of his love and labor into his prized
sweet corn.
Dad favored a hybrid variety of
corn called Golden Bantam. Over the years, he experimented with others, but
always came back to that one variety. He would plant a couple of long rows, let
it get well up out of the ground—maybe six or eight inches—then plant another
couple of rows, and so on. The happy outcome was that we’d have sweet corn
ripening and ready for the table all summer long. It was the staple of our
summer diet: whatever else was going on the table, it would land there next to
the sweet corn.
I have to admit this turned me into
a sweet corn snob. My dad taught me that when corn is picked, the sugar in the
kernels begins to convert into starch. If it sits around for a while, that
wonderful sweetness is lost, and all the butter and salt in the world will not
make up for it. I rarely buy corn at the supermarket because I know it just
won’t measure up.
So, the wiry little German man
would deliver ten yards of steer manure to our driveway and that weekend, my dad
would begin the process of carting it back to his garden plot, one wheelbarrow
load at a time. He’d spread it out over the fallow ground and then begin
digging it into the soil by hand, a process that would take most of a Saturday
or Sunday afternoon. He’d stop every now and then for a cold beer, or to scoop
up one of our cats and scratch its ears, but he’d always finish the job by
sundown. A shovel was the only tool he needed. Dad was past his sixtieth
birthday when we finally convinced him to hire someone with a rototiller to do
the job.
Why am I telling you all this?
Well, it’s almost time to head over to my favorite garden supply store and load
the trunk of my Honda with eight or ten bags of steer manure. This I will
spread on my four-by-twelve-foot tomato patch and then dig it into the soil
with my trusty shovel. It doesn’t take more than an hour or so, but I’ll manage
to stop for a couple of beers. And my beloved cat, Sophie, will be hanging
around, keeping an eye on the proceedings. Maybe this is all a guy really
needs: a piece of God’s good earth, a sturdy shovel, a loyal cat, and a couple
of beers chilling in the fridge.
I’ve had good production from
several varieties—Early Girl, Better Boy, Sweet 100, to name a few—but my
all-time champ is the Lemon Boy, a nice big yellow tomato. Good old Lemon Boy
just seems to love my little piece of ground.
Here’s a little bit of irony: for
all my dad’s expertise and hard work, he could never grow a decent tomato.
Maybe he just overwhelmed them with care. They always seemed to turn out with
thick white cores and they were virtually tasteless. One summer, our neighbors,
the MacLaughlins, drove to Oklahoma to visit family. They planted some tomatoes
before they left and told my dad that if he watered them, he was welcome to
whatever fruit developed. These poor neglected plants—unstaked, untended,
unloved—produced the biggest and best tasting tomatoes ever grown in Vallejo.
My dad swore he’d never plant
another vine, which leads me to wonder if he would have admired my tomatoes as
much as I admired his corn. It’s something to ponder.
At any rate, in a week or so I’ll
make my annual trek to the garden shop and load the trunk with bags of steer
manure. I can’t say it’s the best shit in town, but my Lemon Boy sure seems to
like it.
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