Dirt Won’t Hurt

My mom has a saying she shares from time to time: Dirt won’t hurt. And this time of year, I’m literally covered in dirt— clods sticking to the bottom of my work shoes and the brown stuff caked underneath my fingernails.

I am, without any apology whatsoever, an outside girl. Always have been, always will be. Yes, I have to slather on a quart of sunscreen and strap on a wide-brim hat every time I step outside—skin cancer is no joke, and I’ve already had some spots removed— but none of that dims my love for fresh air, open sky and my hands deep into the soil. Put me outside, and I am in my happy place.

Winter just about does me in every single year. When the days grow short and the temperatures drop too low for shorts, t-shirts and flip flops, something inside me dies a little. I don’t do well cooped up in the house. I mope around, staring out windows, counting down the days. And when the calendar flips to the first day of spring, I feel like a completely different woman. Every year in March, I am born again—lighter, happier, full of hope, easier to be around, lovable, more energetic, a pure delight. This year, I didn’t even wait for spring to officially arrive. About two weeks before March 20, I got busy and started some seeds indoors, trying to think ahead and save a little money. I had tucked away little heirloom seeds of tomatoes, peppers, green beans, squash, moonflower vines, morning glories, zinnias, and marigolds into compostable containers, and I have been hovering over them like a proud mama hen ever since. And they didn’t disappoint me. Almost every one of the seeds I planted has germinated, pushing up tiny little sprouts toward the window’s sunbeams.

Here in Northwest Georgia, we are told not to put things in the ground until after April 15. Still, I cannot tell you how many times a day I wander over just to look at my tiny plants. There is something almost miraculous about a seed—this small, dry, seemingly lifeless little thing that decides, given the right conditions, to become something beautiful or edible.

I stare at those sprouts and dream. I visualize fat red tomatoes— as big as softballs and warm from the vine, zinnias in every color blazing against the blue summer sky, moonflowers unfurling white and ghostly in the evening darkness. The whole wonderful summer plays out in my imagination, and it all starts with these tiny green sprouts reaching upward, lined up along the perimeter of our great room.

Today I went to Home Depot, loaded several bags of compost and cow manure into the back of the truck, and I smiled the entire drive home (that probably tells you a lot about who I am as a person). Soon we’ll fire up a tiller and turn all that goodness into the garden soil, and then the work will really begin—the planting, the tending, the watering, the watching, the worrying, the waiting. All of it. Sometimes it’s a disappointing season, but I have a good feeling about this year, folks! (I always have a good feeling about the year.)

Some women dream of diamond earrings and expensive gold bracelets, but not me. When I close my eyes and picture something that makes my heart sing, I see flowers and vegetables stretching as far as the eye can see. I see myself, a few years from now, in retirement, outside from sunup to sundown in a worn pair of overalls, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, damp with sweat, growing the most breathtaking gardens anyone has ever laid their eyes on—a hoe in my hands, a smile on my face and dirt underneath my fingernails. Because, as my mama often says: Dirt won’t hurt.