The Old Farmer

The Old Man has been taking advantage of the more temperate weather for the last couple of days.  I've been cleaning out my collard bed.  About the only thing I can grow in my shady area with any degree of success is a fair crop of collard greens.  I have a raised bed that has returned a respectable result, however, as yet, I've discovered no need to call in either migrant workers or a fleet of trucks to haul the harvest to market.  I'll be planting in a few days and nursing the "babies" with the hopes that they achieve a decent size so the frost/freeze can "nip" them.  After that, their sweetness is increased exponentially and, prepared properly, they may as well have been cooked in sugar water mixed with Karo syrup.  Collards are a long-standing tradition as a vital part of our New Year's Day "good luck" meal.

You know from a couple of my previous posts, that I hardly qualify as a farmer.  At best, my thumb is far around  the color wheel from "green".  But, while I worked, my thoughts kept going back to the man with the greenest thumb I've known, my dad.  He could coax a crop of butterbeans from an asphalt parking lot, I'm convinced.

These talents must skip generations.  While all of my efforts pale, our eldest daughter and her husband have raised a most prolific garden this summer. Blessed by adequate rain and moderate temperatures, output has been pretty incredible.  Miss Martha and I recently spent an entire Saturday afternoon on their front porch, in rocking chairs, stringing beans.  One of the nicer days of the year, I might add.  It hearkened back to the simpler times of my childhood.  She has now been trained and fully certified in the fine art of freezing and canning.  Quarts of green beans line her shelves and her freezer is bursting at the seams with corn.  My pride runs deep.

Dad was a farmer at heart.  Raised in rural south side Virginia, his family grew most all of what they ate.  He learned his skills early....it was a matter of survival during the times of the Great Depression.  Those skills transmigrated into a life-long habit of growing our food every summer.
While taking a break from my efforts, I poked around and ran across these pictures of Dad in his element.  I submit them as proof that generation skipping is a valid concept.

So, Dad, I hope that from wherever you now garden, you can shoot me a blessing on my collard crop.  New Year's Day is not too far around the corner and I want to be ready.