A lot of folk have been asking me recently where my interest in growing things came from. My answers have meandered through the profound effect the writings of Wendell Berry have had on my thought life and on into the first gardening experience I had (only a few years ago) where it just felt right to have my hands in the ground. But in retrospect, I might have gone much further back into my life history. Life on a farm and in connection with the soil have been a part of my life as long as I can remember. Both of my maternal grandparents grew up on family farms in the South. Both got out of farming as soon as they could. But the stories they told us kids of life amongst the animals and the fields stuck with me through college and graduate school; a path that was supposed to land me far far away from farming, and into a cushy office job. Against the odds both of my grandparents got off the land and into successful “city” careers. Against even greater odds I have gotten back to the land and into a newly emergant “city career”. And for that, I thank God. In this blog I thought it might be interesting for readers to hear one of the stories of my granddad.
For much of his childhood years, my granddad lived on a marginal farm in a very rural part of Arkansas. With his brother, father, and step-mom, he grew up in a two room shack. He and his brother slept on the screened in porch or, if it was cold, in the kitchen near the wood stove. It’s hard for me to believe, but my granddad didn’t sleep on a real bed more than a handful of times till he enlisted in the Navy at 17 (“the earliest you could sign up”, he always says.). The following is one of the stories he likes to remember about “those days”. It’s a “morality tale” the way he tells it, but I think you’ll enjoy it nevertheless.
Here’s the backdrop: their farm was in the lowlands between the tree covered hills. This being the area right around creek, it was usually the most nutrient rich and crop- friendly. Farming in such spaces is not, however, tractor friendly (even if they could afford it). The family farm depended on two fabulously stubborn mules. The mules pulled the plow that tilled up the ground and the cart that was usually occupied by my Great-Granddad. My Granddad and his brother walked along the outside, clearing the path for the mules or removing large stones that were pulled up by the plow. In the wake of the plowing, you could see the rough shape of the rows that were usually planted in corn sometime in the early summer months of May or June.
The days were long, hot, and very humid. After each long route through the bottomland, the mules expected to be given a break to rest beneath the shade trees that lined the outside of the bed rows on each side. After several long rows were successfully tackled, the mules expected to be turned to the side and directed to the watering hole up the hill. This was the normal run of things; normal enough that when things were even a little different, the mules set things right.
On one particularly hot and humid day toward the end of the planting season, my Great-Granddad was pressing the mules harder than normal. The result was one of the more comical stories my Granddad tells.
Row after row, the mules were pushed on, and then turned to make another run. They were given breaks, but it wasn’t at the frequency they were used to. Each row they expected a break, but they were pushed two or three rows before getting their desired stop. They were given water but not as often as they’d grown accustomed to. At the end of a particularly long streak without water for the mules the afternoon sun was at its peak strength when my granddad turned the reins, signaling another bed to the plowed up. Turning widely, the mules caught the cool shade of an outstretched tree. They stopped. My Great-Granddad shook the reins, but to no avail. They were ready to break and it didn’t matter what he did. Seeing their stubbornness rising up, and by all means wanting to let them know who ran things at the farm, he dismounted and began to slap the animals on their backside. A switch was soon acquired but no amount of such well worn “tactics” succeeded in budging them from their spot beneath the tree.
Off in the distance, my Great-Granddad spied a mostly dead tree that he had been meaning to cut down. For such purposes he always carried an axe on the cart. Axe in hand, and with more anger than good sense in the hot sun, he cut up a good amount of firewood that he then spread beneath the two mules. Well satisfied with himself, he then lit the wood on fire. The mules on this day, however, got the last laugh. They casually pulled up several feet so that the cart was squarely over the fire… The mules were sold a few weeks later.
As with all my Granddad’s stories, this one has a point, in fact it has several. “Be mindful of those who are under your care” is the first one. Here’s another: “when encountering a particularly stubborn problem, don’t get so consumed with your ‘highly effective’ solution that you forget how you got into the situation in the first place.” And lastly, “be humble, even a mule is smarter than you on certain occasions.”
I hope this week finds you healthy, happy, and with your collective “mule-carts” in one piece. We at the Korpophoreō Project are plowing up our beds this week in preparation for the Fall planting. I just put in the first crop of broccoli, potatoes, and swiss chard.
Till next time…Keep it green and growing.
Steven Hebbard
Good Soil Developer
The Korpophoreō Project/MLF
Mules in my opinion tend to have tantrums sometimes. But they are very useful in transporting heavy loads.
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