3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #3

OK, so my father likes my writing. I don't know what it is about it that he likes so much, but he gets a kick out of it and supports it (clue to all you parents out there whose kids like strange things: SUPPORT THEM, appropriately, of course). So, he asked me last week if I take "guest bloggers." Naturally, I said yes. Then, Dad did something which he will likely regret: he sent me an email and in it, wrote,

"OK here it is. see attached word file. this is just one of those little things that get stuck in your head and you can't get it out until you put it down on paper. so thats what I did. use at your discrtion."

Now, I told a couple of my buddies about this, and they both answered with the same thing: "Ummm, he KNOWS that's a mistake, right?" I figure I shall get one of three reactions: "That's NOT how I intended it to be used!", "I suppose I should ahve known better, but I'm glad you had your fun (grumble, grumble).", OR "Well, I figured you'd do something with it, but I wasn't expecting THAT."

But there's something else at play here: my dad basically just told me that he trusts me with something very near and dear to him. For that, Dad, I thank you. So, completely unedited, unaltered - my father's words:

Today, I planted peppers.

It’s a simple process. Prepare the soil with spade and rake or other suitable tools. Apply lime and fertilizer. Mark a straight row with string. Dig a small hole with a trowel. Place the little baby pepper plant in the hole, cover the roots with fine soil, firm the soil gently around the plant. Water it well. It’s easy.

I was not yet eight years old when I first did this in the big field behind Grandpa’s house on a sunny spring day. We were planting the field to tobacco, and there was a marvelous machine called a tobacco setter to help with the work. The setter moved down the field at a pace no faster than a man out for a leisurely walk, pulled by the red tractor Grandpa was driving. The machine opened a furrow in the fine, sandy soil. Then, thanks to a wonderful mechanism of chains and gears and valves and tubes, it would release a spurt of water into the furrow at just the right interval for planting tobacco. My uncles, Bill and Norm, rode the machine, sitting close to the ground. Each time a spurt of water issued forth, they would set a young tobacco seedling in the furrow, and a pair of rubber wheels would press the furrow closed around the roots. The result was a long, straight row of evenly spaced plants marching down the field.

My job was setting skips. Sometimes Bill or Norm would fail to set a plant in the furrow when the spurt of water came, so there was a plant missing in the orderly spacing down the row. I followed behind with a basket of plants and a trowel and a watering can. I had been carefully instructed to spot each skip, dig a hole with the trowel, set the plant in the hole, cover the roots with soil, and water it well. So the gaps in the neatly spaced row were filled. I suspect Bill or Norm would sometimes miss a plant on purpose, just to keep the small boy busy.

But that was sixty years ago and a thousand miles from here.

Today, I planted peppers.

Thanks for sharing this, Pop.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUT It just wouldn't be me if I left it completely alone, so today's poem is inspired from my father's memories of planting tobacco.

Today, I planted peppers.
A simple thing,
Dig, fill, water, tamp.
It repeats.
It's boring.
Sixty years, and nothing's changed.
I've been digging a long time.
Watch it grow, from seed to bloom to fruiting,
My rows aren't as straight as I remember -
the machine was precise, I am close enough.
Filling the gaps.
But we were working for the Farm.
Tabac was sold at market.
Today, I sat when my work was done
smoking a cigar with the Connecticut wrapper.
Because today, I planted peppers.

Thanks for the inspiration, Dad.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid