The Earthiness of Dirt
by Kimberley Thompson, Tastemaker in Residence
Dirt. I am pondering dirt.
The bane of freshly scrubbed floors, laundry pre-treaters, air filters, brooms and vacuums, little children’s hands and feet, white linen dresses, and just washed vehicles. And in its smallest, microscopic form as dust; slayers of electronics, carrier of germs, and filth.
Dirt.
One-third of the triad of life: rain, sun, and earth. The essential for growing food and satiating hunger. One half of a perfect pair used to create bricks to build shelters: straw and clay.
Dirt.
Why my sudden fascination?
Covid-19. (Yes, you read that right.)
Covid-19 has brought dirt back into my world.
Day 29 of my “Shelter in Place” had not started well. I was cranky, sleep-deprived, off-kilter with my work habits. How was I to know that my typing skills were severely lacking (apparently along with my ability to correct (“autocorrect”) when I was “saving” my daylight hours by responding to emails at 2:35 AM?
Day 29 started with work-related fires…little…but still, ones that left a bit of a burned earth odor once resolved. And to compound matters; one was a Zoom meeting. Yup. And I have hair that has gone past its “color by” date 8 weeks ago. There is not a wide enough headband in the world to cover white roots topping dyed auburn strands.
Not wanting to stare at the screen of either my laptop nor Android and desiring to leave the environs of the house; I made the decision to go to my own house (under some remedial contractor/homeowner work): so I drove over. I was out of kilter as I stared at my yard and neglected gardens. Over the last 8 years, these flower beds had been abandoned by me as more of my time was being spent with my Mom.
Squirrels were rustling under the old lilacs searching for last year’s stash. And little sparrows were hopping after them grabbing the loosened debris from the squirrel searches. A few wisps were easy to fly away with; others took struggles and tugs to pull the dried grasses and weeds free. The birds flew off with their treasures to nearby trees where they deftly used the dried leaves and sticks to weave into nests. The small birds persisted; coming back dozens of times for nesting materials.
I went to the garage and got a rake to pull out the materials under the bushes, letting the breeze carry the leaves and grasses across the yard. Once that was done, I looked around and spotted my long-abandoned garden beds. Ah…there was plenty of nesting material in those beds.
The rake didn’t do quite as well in the raised beds; so I wrangled my garden cart out of the garage. Hoes, scratchers, clippers and gloves all were called into use. And once the beds were cleaned, piling the loose remnants where the birds could find them, I sat down at the edge. It felt good. I was in control.
Without thought, I started pulling the grasses that had taken over the beds next to some not so small saplings, volunteer raspberries, and aggressive buckthorn. My gloves made it difficult to feel for just the grass to pull; causing the death of several columbine and what I think were self-sown bachelor buttons. I finally took off the hot and very damp gloves and just dug in with my fingers.
Grab. Twist. Pull. And again. And again. And again.
Time blurred. I could feel the little grains of earth against my fingertips. I smelled the unmistakable scent of fresh dirt: seeds ready to sprout, castings from earthworms wiggling through the soil, and sweet moistened airlifting myriads of smells to my nose as I broke the garden surface with each pull. I thought about all the possibilities for growth that must be in each spade full of dirt.
Dirt caked every wrinkle in my knuckles. Dirt matted the surface of my nails and was entrenched under each nail. Dirt splotched on my arms and the tops of my feet. My face was gritty with dirt. I think I even tasted dirt…but that could merely have been dehydration setting in.
Me. Dirt. Me. Dirt. For several hours.
I do not “do” dirt…I used to 20 or 30 years ago…but not now. Someone else grows the flowers I love to arrange in vases. Farmers grew my veggies and I purchased them at one of 3 or 4 farmer’s markets every other week or so. I do not hike on nature trails, go off asphalt paths, sit on beaches without blankets and chairs beneath me. And yet here I was, grubby to say the least…piggy to be truthful.
I had not thought once about work. I had not worried about Mom in her senior residence. I had not obsessed about my world getting back “to normal.” (Like that will ever be.)
Thinking about dirt.