Bringing the Old Family Dirt Back to Life
When I look back on growing up, most of my childhood memories are covered in a fine layer of Southern dust. Back then, Dad was working full-time at his regular day job, which meant the daily, grueling responsibility of keeping up the yard and the garden fell squarely on the shoulders of Mom, my brother, and me.
Now, when I say “the yard and the garden,” I need you to understand that I am not talking about a couple of cute little raised cedar beds in a suburban backyard. We were managing approximately five sprawling acres of land, and about three of those acres were dedicated entirely to the family garden. To call it a garden is honestly the understatement of the century; it was a small-scale farming operation. The last acre alone was nothing but row after row after row of corn that seemed to stretch right off the edge of the earth.
Beyond the corn maze, the rest of the dirt was packed to the brim with sweet potatoes, peanuts, black-eyed peas, okra, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and a fragrant patch of sage. It was literally everything you could possibly think of that a family would need to survive and make it through the long winter. And keeping it alive was our job.
We would get out there in the sweltering heat and wrestle the heavy, bucking tiller until the land was perfectly churned. We planted the seeds by hand, spent hours chopping relentless weeds out of the rows with a heavy hoe, and harvested mountains of vegetables the exact second they became ready. Dad wasn’t totally off the hook, though. When he got home from work, he would jump right in to help when it came time for the heavy lifting, especially with the white and red potatoes. And, of course, the peanuts.
Lord above, I hated those dang peanuts.
When it was finally time for the peanut harvest, we would pull the heavy, dirt-clodded bushes right out of the ground. We used a traditional curing method, building what we called a “shock.” We would drive a sturdy pole deep into the earth, nail a few 2x4s across the bottom to keep the crop off the damp dirt, pile the raw peanuts onto the structure, and leave them out in the sun to dry.
After a while, the sun and wind would do their job. They would dry out completely, and you could hear the distinct, hollow rattle of the nuts inside their hulls. That sound was our signal. We would drag out the faded, uncomfortable metal milk crates, sit down in the dirt, and start the tedious process of picking the peanuts off the vine, tossing the dusty, itchy vines aside as we went. It was a hot, filthy, back-breaking job, and I absolutely despised it. I loved eating the peanuts, sure—but I did not like that dirty work one bit.
Once the hard labor of harvesting was done, the processing began. Thankfully, we usually took that work into the shade. We would lug our haul out to the nearby pine thicket, a cool, breezy sanctuary away from the blazing sun, and spend the afternoon shelling peas and shucking corn.
I will never, ever forget one particular afternoon out in that thicket.
We were all sitting around on our buckets and crates, fingers stained green from shelling peas, when a traveling Bible salesman came crunching up the driveway. He looked terribly out of place, but he made himself right at home. He strutted over to the shade, sat down right beside us, and enthusiastically launched into his polished sales pitch.
Mom didn’t even look up at first. When she finally did, she stopped him dead in his tracks.
She looked this man dead in the eye and calmly told him that if he was going to sit in her shade and talk about what he was selling, he needed to grab a bowl and earn his keep. To our absolute shock, she handed him a pile of unshelled peas. She actually made him shell peas while he pitched! It didn’t take him long at all to realize he wasn’t going to make a single penny off this family today. He awkwardly set the bowl down, packed up his briefcases, brushed the dust off his slacks, and hit the road.
All that endless, back-breaking hard work paid off where it mattered most: the kitchen. Mom carefully preserved everything we harvested. She had a system, pulling out exactly what she needed, right when she needed it, to whip up lunch and dinner. It kept the family grocery bill incredibly small, but more importantly, it was exceptionally good food.
Fresh black-eyed peas are truly awesome. The canned ones you get at the store are fine in a pinch, but you cannot beat the rich, earthy taste of fresh ones simmered right out of the garden. And Mom’s fried okra? It was nothing short of legendary. God, that stuff was good. She’d fry it up golden and crispy in a cast-iron skillet. You can order fried okra at fancy Southern restaurants today, but it is nothing—absolutely nothing—like the magic Mom worked over that stove.
Things look a little different around the property today. Dad is gone now, and the sprawling land we used to endlessly till for that massive garden has mostly grown over. Pine trees and wild grass have reclaimed the rows where the corn used to stand. We do have some reliable blueberry bushes that have been producing well, but recently, I found myself missing the rhythm of the harvest. I decided to bring a little bit of that old growing spirit back to the land.
Over the last couple of years, I’ve cleared some space and planted a proper fruit tree orchard. I’ve put in pomegranates, persimmons, apples, nectarines, juicy peaches, pears, kiwi, and even some pawpaws. I also added a couple of beehives just for the heck of it, hoping they’ll help pollinate the orchard and maybe give us a little fresh honey down the line.
It is definitely going to take some work to take care of everything. But if those long, hot summers in the three-acre garden taught me anything, it’s that getting your hands dirty and growing your own food is always worth it in the long run.