PLANTING GARDEN

Today I planted peas, beans, carrots, lettuce – and corn -- in the garden plot here in Clarkston. And as I planted my thoughts naturally turned to my dad. My dad was proud of the sweet corn he grew at the Dobson family homestead above the Clearwater River near Orofino, Idaho – the same place Mike and I now call home when we aren't here in Clarkston. Daddy grew a big patch of corn there most every summer, and when it was ready in August we would gather to husk the corn and cook it for freezing. It was some kind of good!

The year was 1984. I answered the phone and a gruff, authoritative voice said, "Kathy – it's dad. I want you and Mike to come on Saturday. We'll go to the farm. I want the boys to help me plant corn." My heart sank. We had other plans. Besides, the boys were 4 and 6 years old, and I knew at their ages they just couldn't understand the situation as I did. At 80, my dad was looking frail, but he wanted to plant corn on the farm as he had for so many years, and he wanted to share the experience with his grandchildren. Trouble was – for right or wrong – the boys were unused to the concept of real work, or staying on task until the job was done. But this year, if someone didn't help Daddy, the corn wouldn't be planted. Mike and I agreed we had to go.

So, that Saturday in May, 1984, we met my parents at their home in Orofino and drove on to the farm, 10 miles up a steep and winding grade from the river to the flat farmland on top of the mountain. Daddy had tilled the garden plot in preparation for the planting. The boys, Milo and Clint, were assigned to throw seed into the hills as Daddy hoed, but that lasted about 5 minutes. To stave off frustration for everyone, the boys were sent to play under my mother's watchful eye while I helped Daddy plant the corn. Mike always made himself useful by mowing the lawn or servicing the tractor.

Daddy marked the long rows as many gardeners do – twine tied between two stakes. The corn was then planted in hills within the row. As he pulled the dirt back with the hoe, I threw two or three kernals of corn under the hoe. Then he dropped the dirt back and gave the hill a tap with the hoe as he stepped to make the next hill. "This is dry land farming," he said; "no moisture except what comes by rain." He talked as we worked, telling me about the experience of planting gardens and living on the farm when he was a boy. I knew I was hearing what he had thought he would tell the boys. But it was okay because I was the one who needed to hear it.

Last summer I was discussing gardens with Pete, our farm neighbor. "Vance [my dad] used to have a good garden," said Pete. "Vance was a good gardener." We talked about the corn, the green beans, the strawberries that Daddy grew. "But I tell you what," Pete added, "it used to rain. We used to get a lot of rain. I remember we could count on it to rain in June and July. It just doesn't any more. We can still garden here, but we have to water." KW