There is something about dirt– something mysterious, satisfying, irresistible. I like the smell of freshly turned earth. I want to work it, to plant and grow something. Although my parents didn’t grow up on farms, my grandparents did. They knew mule-driving, cotton-picking, cow-milking, hog-butchering, heart-and-back-breaking, never-slacking, never-ending, get up at four and do-it-again dirt, sun, and sweat work. If the crops failed, the family went hungry. Although I am a few generations removed, and can’t claim a fraction of the toughness, knowledge, and resiliency of my forebears, still, even in my soft life of modern American ease-there’s something about working the dirt. And there’s something about walking out the door and collecting a bucketful of vegetables from the garden- a garden like Granddaddy’s.
Although he never told me about it himself, by all accounts, my Granddaddy Cochran, the second of nine children, had a hard raising. His father, Boone, was born into a rough-and-ready clan in the mountains near the Georgia-Tennessee border in the summer of 1889. Boone was brilliant, exacting, hard to get along with, and too often drunk. His wife, Luna, Grandaddy’s mother, a devout Methodist and well-educated for her day, (the daughter of a scholarly public-school teacher), certainly had a hard time, too. My dad told a story about Luna smuggling a hacksaw blade into the Benton, Tennessee jail to help Boone escape, (which he did). Perhaps that was merely a story, but it might have been true.
Anyway, my granddaddy, Lacey, left home and married young. Jobs being scarce during the Great Depression, he moved to New Orleans, where he worked nights at the port, unloading cargo. He wasn’t a big man, but he was used to long hours, heavy work, and no complaining. Lacey found a man willing to rent out a room in a nice house-at an affordable price- and sent for Tommie, his pretty, vivacious bride, who was the youngest daughter of a fiery Baptist minister.
The woman of the house where the newlyweds rented their room was elegant, fashionable, and even in those bleak times, had plenty of money. Before long, Tommie found out that a baby was on the way- and the landlady was dotingly kind and helpful. She even gave Tommie the gift of a full layette- finest quality, beautiful clothes for the baby who would be arriving soon- everything the new mother would need. Tommie was so appreciative, she told everyone she knew about her landlady’s generosity. In return, someone told my grandmama where her benefactress made all that money. The lady’s wealth involved a certain house that she owned, and the profitable business she operated there- a business the sheltered daughter of a Baptist minister might find…shocking. And there was Tommie’s sweet baby girl wearing lacy gowns bought with the wages of…well, you know. Unloading banana boats all night and living in the home of a well-known madam was not the life the young couple had envisioned.
They moved to Atlanta, where their second child, my dad, arrived- and Granddaddy worked as a short-order cook. Then they moved back to Grandmama’s hometown, Dalton; and over time, Granddaddy became a successful businessman, a leader in his church and community. He purchased some acreage and brought Grandmama and their six children from town to a big house in the country. Granddaddy wanted a farm again, but this time as a hobby and investment, not for survival. After all, there’s something about dirt.
When six children grow up, it’s a safe bet that grandchildren will follow…in Granddaddy’s case, lots of them. I was one. I loved my granddaddy, but not with a warm and snuggly, climb-up-in-his-lap kind of love. Grandmama greeted us at the door of their always-bustling house with a big smile, a bear hug, and an enthusiastic “Give me some sugar!” Granddaddy was harder to locate in the action. I never doubted that he was a good, hard-working, honest, godly man who loved his family; but Granddaddy hid a tender, sensitive heart behind a gruff exterior. As a child, I don’t remember him ever picking me up, or telling me a story, or even holding my hand. I do remember him cooking omelets for everybody in the big kitchen- the best omelets ever. The secret ingredients were whatever he put in the tomato sauce and English peas. (The omelets were amazing; trust me). I remember his savory beef stew (and the time the pressure cooker exploded). I remember his sausage gravy. And I remember his garden.
On the other side of the creek, Granddaddy had tilled up a long patch of ground and grew his vegetables in rows. He always planted a line of zinnias (he called them old maids) in front. I don’t need a photograph to remember how he looked, walking in from the garden wearing Bermuda shorts (riding low), his white ribbed tank undershirt, and dark socks- deeply tanned and carrying a big bucket full of the day’s bounty. He and Grandmama would fry up a “mess of squash” and “okrie,” and serve up corn on the cob, sliced tomatoes (some almost as big as the plate), green beans, and corn bread. There’s no better food in the world. Different aunts, uncles, and cousins would be gathered there eating dinner and “cutting up,” but Granddaddy didn’t linger long at the table. He wasn’t one for idle chatter or sitting around.
Granddaddy made the most wonderful bread and butter pickles. When I was grown and he had retired, I asked for his recipe. He said he didn’t have a recipe, but would be glad to show me how he did it. We spent the afternoon making pickles- just Granddaddy and me. I treasure the memory of that day.
I have to think that my love of vegetable gardening comes mostly from him. When I’m collecting ripe, juicy tomatoes for a sandwich (best with Miracle Whip and white bread), or picking a bucket of beans, I think about a sweet little boy who had too much work and responsibility thrust on him far too soon- an intelligent boy who had to give up school for farm work, and who dreaded for his father to come home, mean and full of whiskey. I think of a young man who was determined to provide for his family- even if the only job he could get was unloading banana boats or working the grill. I think of a father and mother who built a happy home for six lively, fun-loving children, and left a strong and true faith-legacy. I think of a talented businessman whose hard work and sound decisions carried him farther than he dreamed he could go. I think of a granddaddy who might have seemed crusty to a granddaughter who, like him, expects too much out of people, and who sometimes may seem a little crusty herself. I think about a family patriarch leading, advising, and praying for his family; and, right before dark, the homemade banana ice cream devoured, the ball games played, while everybody is sitting around “cutting up,” he abruptly stands, grumbling, “It’s time for y’all to go home now. I’m going to bed.”
When I graduated high school, Granddaddy wrote me a letter- in his own hand- on Chief Home and Auto stationery. I still have it- the only letter I ever got from him. He said he was proud of me. He offered encouragement- writing that my “fine training” and “faith in God” would keep me “strong and upright.” Finally, he gave me a blessing. The words mean a lot because his words of praise were not liberally or flippantly bestowed. I’m proud of you, too, Granddaddy; and while you were here, I never understood or appreciated all you overcame.
But now the sun is shining and I’m going to the garden to dig in the dirt. I found a package of old maid seeds that I haven’t planted yet. I’ll pick a mess of squash to fry up for supper, and fill a bucket with green beans. There are some weeds in the sweet potatoes that need to come out and an ailing pepper plant to tend to. I’ll squish the bugs that I can catch- the ones eating holes in the bean leaves, and I will listen to the birds. I will escape the noise of the world to think, and plan, and dream. In a couple of days there will be enough cucumbers to make bread and butter pickles. A little dirt under the fingernails is good for the soul. I hope my grandchildren figure that out, growing “strong and upright,” like Granddaddy and the plants in his garden.
