It feels like yesterday when I was a shadow in the garden, walking the rows behind my daddy. Wearing a pair of overalls and stepping barefoot in his tracks, I loved spending time with my dad in the garden. He would loosen the soil, and I would grab the newly uncovered potato to place in the bucket. Dad’s garden was always full of good things to eat, and harvest time was busy. Mom would prepare the yield for canning for the months ahead. With those days gone by, I miss the freshness of the garden harvest.
Dad was never a big-time farmer, just a gardener who understood the wonder of a tiny seed feeding his family and often the neighbors, too. My daughter married a farmer, although he would humbly reject the “big-time” reference. He prefers being called “The Hay Guy.” Through him, I gained a new respect for the American farmer. Up before the sun and home long after the supper dishes are cleared away, the farmer continues to look beyond the moment. They understand which fields will produce the greatest crops and how to cultivate, plant and irrigate the endless rows for the best produce.