Too tired to write anything of my own, but this post by Storyshucker encapsulates how I feel about hanging out in the woods and in the garden.
I’m going to be dirty today.
As a kid, Mama often met me on the back stoop as I came in from playing outside. With a broom in her hand she’d have me slowly turn in a circle while she brushed dirt from my blue jeans. She wasn’t against sweeping my bare legs either if I happened to be wearing shorts.
“Don’t bring that mess in this house.” She’d say. “Did you plan to get dirty?”
Well no. I hadn’t planned to. I was a kid. There was dirt. We met and fell in love. The end.
I remembered that this morning as I thought about where to plant some things in the yard. I still love dirt. Not potting soil in shiny garden-center bags. I don’t care for the sterile smell of plastic and perlite. I love real dirt. Earth.
One of the finest smells of spring is that…
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