A little boy digs in the dirt for the “Source of the Seed.”
I was young, probably around four years old when Grandpa Jones held my hand and led me down the steps of the farmhouse porch. It was covered, had comfortable wooden chairs, and it had a sense of peace to it.
Image source: mTm Initiative
As I climbed down the stairs, hand in hand with Grandpa, we started walking toward the family garden. We walked across prairie grass that was their natural landscaping. This grass had been there in this state for hundreds of years before that day of learning and wisdom.
Not too separated from the house was the garden. It had many rows of corn, green beans, okra, squash, melons — basically the vegetables that the whole extended family would be eating and canning for the rest of the year.
Grandpa was a big solid man. He was over 6ft 1, barrel-chested, and strong as an ox. He was of Welsh and Austrian descent. This part of the family had migrated to the Texas Panhandle in the late 1800s from southeast Texas. They came for the land and they came to put their hands in the dirt.
That day, Grandpa had on his overalls and I did, too. I looked like my grandpa and he had a smile as he led me into the tall stalks of corn. Once we were surrounded by the jungle of corn, I can still vividly remember how safe and excited I felt. It was a new dimension, being in the middle of a crop of West Texas corn, it was a treasure chest of stimulation and adventure for a four-year-old boy.
As Grandpa kneeled down, he dug his hand into the dirt and picked it up. With his hand still holding mine, he turned my hand to the sky and placed that soil into my palm. It was cool and it was dark. He then smiled and said, “Can you feel that?” I did; I felt the life of that soil. I have never forgotten that moment.
Years later, I am sitting here writing about soil and that one moment in time that has never left my memory or my heart. Grandpa knew something. He knew that the soil was alive and he knew…
