The Spirit of Farming

The Spirit of Farming He swore if he ever got off that farm he would never put his hands in the dirt again. No garden or spring house, no barn, or chickens, pigs or cows. So he married and moved to the suburbs. Bought produce at the farmers' market; eggs, butter, cream, and bacon at the grocery. Then he inherited his aunt's chest freezer. A White Westinghouse longer than a coffin and twice as deep. His aunt used to stand on a kitchen chair to pull packages from the bottom. He built a storage shed around the freezer under his carport. He built a twostory loft around his lawnmowers, tools, and the spare refrigerator in his side yard. Then he retired and started a small truck patch. Just gives me something to do, is all, he said. Only some tomatoes and pickling cucumbers at first. The garden grew a little each summer, the borrowed tiller plowing just one more row for Kentucky Wonders, While Half Runners, Silver Queen, zucchini, and sugar snap peas. I may try me some okra and a bed ofspinach next summer. His garden sprawls through the back yard like a lake. The old freezer in his springhouse hums and bulges with blocks of produce, his farm tools stored neatly in his barn. He dreams of leaning his face into warm flank, squirting fresh milk into the barn cats' peeping mouths, wakes wondering where he could tie up a cow. —Marianne Worthington 128 ...