Sara Etgen-Baker--Plantin' Season

Plantin' Season

Sara Etgen-Baker

Photos courtesy of the author.

Granny and Aunt Betty

Dad and Me.

March was and still is my favorite month of the year. Even now, I enjoy breathing in the crisp, clean air and watching the trees begin to blossom. The days grow longer and warmer; the birds chirp once again, heralding spring’s arrival. More importantly, though, March is ‘plantin’ season,’ as Dad liked to call it. March was the month when he transformed our backyard into a bountiful garden full of fresh fruits and vegetables.

When ‘plantin’ season’ began in 1961, Dad roused me from a deep sleep. “Today’s the day!” he said, his face beaming. “Put on your gardening clothes, grab your gear, and meet me in the backyard. It’s ‘plantin’ season. Hurry now, time’s a wastin’!”

I quickly dressed in a pair of old denim jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and my gardening boots, grabbing some peanut butter toast on my way to the garage. I rummaged through the shelves until I found my gardening apron, gloves, and straw hat. Excitement fluttered deep in the pit of my stomach as I raced toward the backyard pausing temporarily to smell the damp earth and to relish the feeling of the warm sun on my skin. I passed the old pecan tree with its fresh, new leaves, its branches stretching out like welcoming arms, and found Dad walking off a 15’ by 15’ square space.
“This is the most level place in the backyard, the perfect spot with plenty of sunshine,” he said enthusiastically.

We worked together pulling weeds and removing grass before he tilled the soil. I stood on the sidelines and watched Dad, his calloused hands gripping the handles of the tiller as he plowed through the rich soil. With awe, I observed the dirt being turned over, revealing its dark, fertile secrets. He shoveled compost over the area, which I racked making sure the compost was evenly distributed over the garden area.
After a quick lunch, we drove to the local feed and seed store with the truck’s windows rolled down, the smell of fresh spring air flowing across our faces and sweaty brows. As we made our way into town, I gazed out the window staring at the planted fields, envisioning our own garden blooming with life. We arrived at the store abuzz with customers and filled with the familiar scents of soil and seeds.

“Here’s a list of the vegetable seed packets for you to pick out,” Dad said handing me a somewhat crumpled piece of paper with dirt smudges on it. The list included my favorites: cucumber, radishes, watermelon, lettuce, squash, bell peppers, tomatoes, chives, and potatoes. I carefully placed each seed packet in our basket and found Dad standing in line at the register waiting to checkout. We loaded up the truck with our purchases: Dad’s new shovel, my hand trowel, new gardening gloves, and other miscellaneous gardening items. We made our way home, filled with a sense of expectancy and excitement.

Back home, I noticed something different as I passed by the old pecan tree. A small, wooden sign hung from one of the branches. It read, "Etgen Family Garden."

“Look what your mom did while we were gone!” Dad chuckled and ruffled my hair.

For the remainder of the day, Dad and I worked side by side, digging deep holes and carefully placing each seed inside, covering them with a thin blanket of dirt and mulch. The work was hard, but I enjoyed every moment of it. The days and weeks went by, and our garden slowly came to life. The once barren land was filled with vibrant colors and delicious smells. I frequently joined Dad when he tended the garden, watering it and nurturing it with love, care, and patience. When harvest season finally arrived, we were rewarded with the most delicious and bountiful crop.

Even now when I think back to ‘plantin’ season, I feel a sense of pride. Ours wasn’t just a garden; it was a symbol of our family's love and our hard work. As the seasons changed and the vegetables grew, so did our bond. The old pecan tree still stands as does the now faded sign hanging beneath its open arms. Every time I see that sign, I'm reminded of that day in mid-March 961 when Dad taught me more than ‘plantin.’

Through gardening I developed an appreciation for the seasons and rhythms of nature and life itself. I learned observation skills, patience, living with faith, developing a sense of expectancy, and enjoying the fruits of one’s labor. Most of all, I cherished the time I spent with Dad—our very own special father-daughter time in which my love and admiration for him grew and remains in my heart to this day.

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