Past Ramblings
Breakfast at Grandmas
Strong Foundations
Grandpa In The Garden
Family Reunions
Halloween
Saturday Nights
After Sitka
The Gift

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.The morning sun burns down as steam rises  from the rich black rows of freshly turned dirt. In the garden, Grandpa pauses and leans against the plow, puffing. Taking off his hat, he lifts a finger to his brow and wipes off a coating of sweat. Flinging it, he crushes his hat together, trying to get some shape out of the soaked leather and pushes it back on his head.

His overhauls bag in the knees as he once again leans into the plow. Following in behind, barefooted, my footprints sink deep in the freshly turned dirt, right behind the old mule's. The earthy aroma of animal, man and fresh dirt mix and rise up in waves of scent.

After a bit, he stops and leans over to pick up a wad of the black soil. Crumbling  it in his hand he studies it to decide which crop to plant in this particular area.

Making a decision, he tosses it down and turns back to the plow. An old lazy crow sits in the china-berry tree cocking his head this way and that, watching, waiting for Grandpa to uncover a worm for him.

T he odor of bacon drifts on the morning mist and the sound of clanging pots echo in the garden.  Somewhere, someone is just getting breakfast. Back at the house, Grandma and I are putting away the dishes and on the line the wash is already flapping in the early morning breeze.

Grandpa shakes his head in wonder that anyone can stay in bed so late in the morning.  It is usually all of 7 or maybe 8 o’clock at the latest.  I guess this is where I got my love of early mornings. There’s something about a morning breeze that stirs your blood and makes you appreciate the beauty around you a little more....
 

Copyright by: Sharon L. Romine March 1993