Dirt has long been meaningful to me as a gardener.
This picture is an early morning bulldoser moving dirt shot taken on the day we excavated for our foundation seven (or so) years ago in Washington. My former home. The dirt was very fine; my dad, an agronomist, pronounced it “silty loam”, with more emphasis on the silt than on the loam. Which meant lots of flying dust when it was moved, but it compacted very well with water, making an excellent bed for our foundation. Water was the magic ingredient for sure; later, I would discover that with ample irrigation and a little amendment, that silty loam would be quite arable.
Our current home’s foundation rests on what appears to be mostly clay. What drama, what misery in the mud have we waded through this winter! What tales I have to tell… but now, my thoughts are turning (naturally) to gardening, and frankly, I feel… somewhat subdued. I will have to reinvent my gardening culture. Meanwhile, cartons of new little plant starts sit out on the front porch of my rental, waiting for homes.
Was this actually seven years ago (and isn’t there some sort of magic associated with seven years)? Give or take, I guess. This is the little straw hut we built to shelter and entertain our four children (Nora, our fifth, wasn’t even a twinkle in anyone’s eye yet) while we worked to build our house in Washington (the one we sold and said goodbye to, last July). The frame house project was in its earliest stages when this photo was taken, probably Septemberish. We would be building on 3.68 acres (yes, that is a detail I may never forget) out in the country, far from the home we were renting, and winter was on its way. We wanted the kids with us as much as possible while we worked. Ultimately, the straw got wet and sprouted wheat. Also, it sprouted mice, which lent an eerie, fairy-tale drama to the whole hut experience, and provided fodder for outlandish tales that Maurya (our second daughter) still likes to shock us with. We were not quite finished with the big white house when we dismantled the little straw house; eventually, all that straw enriched my gardens. A lovely cycle, really.
When Frank and I were first married, I insisted (sort of arbitrarily) that daffodils were my favorite flower. In the Columbia Basin in Washington (which was our home for 25 years, more or less, until last July), daffodils appear in time for my birthday at the end of March. My flower declaration was a subtle setup for a test, poor Frank, and he was (unfairly) measured and weighed and found wanting. He couldn’t remember what my “favorite” flower was called, or even what color it was. (He also had a hard time remembering the color of my eyes… it just wasn’t one of those important details).
Last night, I dreamt about water. I’ve dreamt many times about water now. Dreamt that I live in a lake (up to my neck), dreamt that the water in my crawlspace is over my head, opaque with mud. These dreams are partially grounded in truth (which is often the case with dreams). We have discovered, halfway through the construction of our house, that we have water issues. Whether they are caused by a high water table, or by the vagaries of winter construction and haphazard backfill, or both, we don’t know yet. I am beyond complaining about it; I was informed about the high water table in Plain City before we bought the lot; now, I am in the mood for creative solutions. (And what does water table mean? Who came up with that term?) I’ve already had a few offered by our framers (who are no doubt beyond relieved that any and all mud issues fall outside the realm of their jurisdiction). Ron recommended snow shoes to prevent sinking in the mud. Sean simply grinned and suggested investing in a duck boat. And then allowed himself a full blown chuckle.