Grandma's rototiller
By PAT WICK
© Another Day in the Country
At this time of the year, the Schubert/Bentz families start digging around in the dirt. It's part of our heritage. It's genetic. It's built into our DNA. Everyone didn't get it, just like everyone doesn't have brown eyes; but a goodly portion of us are infected with the gardening bug.
When some of the cousins were together last month, we already were itching to be planting and began talking about rototillers. "I've got a new one," said my cousin Gary. "It's a sweet little thing."
"I NEED a new one," I confessed. "Dad's old rototiller is too heavy for me to handle and Tooltime Tim doesn't even want to start it up for fear it will be one more thing he ends up doing — I've got to get one of those little girl-tillers that are light weight and easy to start." We sat reminiscing about gardens, tools, and what we wanted to plant this year and our thoughts turned to our grandmother who always had a big garden. "Wouldn't Grandma have loved having one of these new little tillers," I said.
"What do you mean?" interjected my cousin Keith. "I was Grandma's tiller!" We all laughed at Keith's exclamation as he went on, "Every spring when Grandma was ready to plant, Dad would send me up to spade her garden for her." He was probably nine years old when he first became Grandma's rototiller and it continued into his teens until she died. Being Grandma's rototiller was one more thing we missed out on, not living in the country.
Our genetics for growing things began more than 100 years ago in Kansas when my grandfather moved here from Illinois with all of his worldly possessions in a railroad car including fence posts, horses, and a plow — the 1800s version of a rototiller, I guess. No, take that back — the horses were the forerunners of the tractor. The kids were the rototillers, eh? He and his wife brought nine children into the world — most all of them gardeners who have to get their hands in the dirt, come spring.
The other day, my mother, who is 87, came home from the grocery store and said, "I bought some onion sets — I just couldn't help myself — even though I don't have any place to plant them."
"Plant them in a pot," I suggested. But, she already had her pots full of flowers, shielding them from frost and cold spring winds. Those pots were blooming with the hopefulness that spring engenders. "Just put them in your garden," she said.
I watch the gardeners in Kansas to give me cues as to when it's safe to plant. Coming from California where we could plant something almost anytime, I am in need of continuing education. Kink planted peas and radishes ages ago. Betty has potatoes in, of course, and I think tomatoes hiding under covers.
Yesterday, I met a world-class gardener in Marion, whose garden I always envy. He had built himself a contraption out of 1x4s to pull through his garden and make his rows as straight as an arrow. I stopped the car and watched his progress. "So what do you have planted?" I wanted to know.
"Potatoes, onions, corn," he gestured to several rows. "I always start some early, just in case it doesn't freeze!" And he grinned like the dirt-gamblers always grin — taking a chance on nature.
"Maybe I need me one of those row-makers," I told Tooltime Tim, later.
"You wouldn't use it," he said. "You're too impatient — you won't even put up a string!"
He's right! But I did get me a cute little rototiller that is just the right size to fit between the rows, even if they're crooked.
Tim put it together, filled it with gas and fired it up. "Now you try it," he commanded. I was ecstatic! I could START that tiller all by myself.
"You don't have to run it full bore," Tim hollered as I took off. No office work for me! Taxes can wait! It's another day in the country and this country girl is going to play in the dirt!
