There is something about the dirt in my garden beds. I can plunge my hand into that soil with very little effort, opening up holes for the new tomato plants.
I swear I can see the excitement in their leaves when they first taste their new home. But maybe I am just imagining that.
I look closer.
I can see strands of old hay, some dark and black and almost dirt, some still retaining a bit of gold from a summer in the sun.
Right there is a tiny wad of white fluff imported on the cramped roots of a nursery plant.
I see a bit of bark from the mulch I used one year. The rib of an oak leaf, a few grains of gritty sand.
There, in my palm, is a small stone. Much older than all this other stuff, it could tell me stories if I knew the language.
I know what’s in this dirt, mostly, because I made it myself.
When the raised beds were built a few years ago I didn’t have enough dirt to fill them. I had the excavated soil from the foundation of our room addition. I had a barn full of old hay. So, I made garden lasagna; a layer of hay, and layer of dirt, a layer of hay, a layer of dirt and finishing off with a layer of sawdust cheese!
I sprinkled two buckets of red worms liberally, for seasoning. (to taste?)
I grew the best garden I have ever seen that year. Worms oozed up in the paths between the beds when it rained and migrated into the yard.
The broccoli heads didn’t fit in a gallon bag!
My dirt is alive. I feed it old hay now and it rewards me with vegetables. I clean a barn stall and add a layer to the beds in the fall. Ashes from the fireplace get sprinkled on through out the winter. My worms do a pretty good job of stirring on warm damp days.
The smell when it rains is that humusy organic aroma that gardeners love.
I imagine the tiny root threads and microscopic mold creatures crawling thru a dark maze of decaying organic matter and plant bits.
The huge pink bodies of the worms pushing thru them, gobbling them up.
I think I will go play in the dirt...
