On a balmy February afternoon, I succumbed to the nagging temptation. I could not help myself. Just inside my garden fence I scratched in small patches of seeds—lettuce, spinach and radishes. Common sense told me it was too early to plant, even the tough stuff, but another small voice enticed, “Maybe this year it will stay warm. Wouldn’t a salad fresh from the garden be wonderful in March?”
Every day I strolled by that garden spot where tiny seeds waited under a thin blanket of soil. Every day I leaned over the fence to check if by some miracle, they were coming up.
It is said that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I am convinced that the need to dig in the dirt, plant things, and watch them grow is a trait either learned or inherited from our parents. I recall following Mom around the yard this time of the year as she searched for signs of new life emerging from the earth. “The peonies are pushing through.” She showed me the circle of shoots that looked like a tiny forest of red trees. “Those are tulips.” She indicated the pointed green leaves in the front flower bed. We meandered to the sunny side of the yard where several clumps of brown sticks protruded from the black South Dakota soil. Thorns poked out from the woody stems, but Mom’s proud smile flashed as she bent over them. “The roses are coming!” At the bottom of those clumps, bright green serrated leaves beamed up at her. I envisioned the perfect red, yellow and white blossoms that would grace our table come July.
Mom wasn’t the only one who sought signs of new life every spring. Once the fields were planted, our farmer father needed to make sure those seeds would safely emerge. Mom and we kids never declined his invitation, “Want to take a drive?” A Sunday afternoon or an hour after a thunderstorm provided perfect opportunities to check the crops.
Gravel crunched outside our open windows as Dad slowly putzed around the sections, sometimes stopping for a closer look. Occasionally the right front tire veered perilously close to the ditch. Mom frowned. Dad grinned. “Good stand of oats,” he noted as we gazed at the soft green carpet on the right. Farther down the road tiny spots of green poked out of the ground in perfect diagonals. Our father took pride in those flawless rows. “Won’t be long and we’ll be cultivating.” Wire-checked corn allowed cultivation in both directions. Thistles and sunflowers didn’t stand a chance!
A pair of ring-neck pheasants scurried through the end rows on the field next to the shelterbelt. “They will scratch out some of the plants.” Dad shook his head as we all scoped the area for more birds.
Almost always our father’s Ford ended up far from our own fields. The neighbor’s flax looked good. The rain should make a good first cutting of alfalfa. Baby calves kicked up their hind hooves in pastures. Mama cows gave new babies their daily tongue baths.
Though miles from home, no one minded. There were so many wonders to behold, so many signs of life on those leaving-a-trail Sunday drives.
This year on Good Friday I planted seven hills of Kennebec potatoes (It’s tradition!) and a half package of onion sets, though it is still early and pretty cold. Every day I walk by. Are they up yet?
It must be in my roots, for I can’t seem to help myself. I need to check for the miracles.
Columnist DeAnn Kruempel grew up near De Smet, S.D., and has lived in North Dakota and Iowa all her adult life. She now lives near Logan, Iowa, and can be reached at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.
Bring back memories!
Do you know someone who would smile at the memories? “Putting On the Big Boots,” “Back to Forward” and “Once Upon a Midwest Sunset,” compilations of the stories from the author’s columns, along with her Promises to Keep series, are available on Amazon. Signed copies can also be purchased at the Harrison County Welcome Center AND the Loess Hills Visitor Center & Gift Shop in Moorhead. All make excellent gifts! Contact her at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.
