Dirt

The dirt was dry: a barren land, purged of all it had once been. Winter had come to an end, but the field was yet to be planted. A farmer, out on a trip to the city, was soon to arrive home. He was a particular man with a particular routine. Many knew this about him.

It was bound to rain. As grey clouds loomed, the skies began to darken. Near the farm, tires came down a winding gravel road; a car came to a halt beside the home. The farmer exited. It was not a long walk to the garden, but the fields were ample, and preparing them took time. The farmer was not an old man - but he was a solitary man, preferring the company of nature over people. He had never married, nor had children. He did not easily feel lonely, even though others insisted that he did.

He walked to the garden quickly, bringing with him several plastic bags, which he placed on the ground. The farmer was an experienced gardener who took pride in his crops. He worked smoothly and quickly, preparing the soil with ease. He was the type of man who hummed while he worked, the type of man to assign his crops names, speaking to them as he went. The farmer insisted his crops had personalities of their own. A plant, he would name Susan or Charlie or Abigail.

The sunflower seed was the first to be chosen. It was small in the farmer’s hand: his glove was a dark, hot place. There were many more seeds to be planted. The farmer scraped the dirt with his fingers; already, a spot had been made for the sunflower seed. It fit neatly into the soil, eager to bloom. Underneath the surface was damp and cold: a comforting environment for the seed. It was thirsty. It wasn’t time to drink.

The farmer spent many hours in the garden. It was not much of a garden, yet. The clouds grew darker, carrying with them a heavy blanket of rain. When the farmer finished with the sunflower seeds, he moved onto wheat. When he finished with the wheat seeds, he moved onto corn, and then carrot. And the very first sunflower seed waited still.

Time passed. The sunflower seed, nestled in its soil bed, felt the first drop of rain. It dozed, soaking in the shower that greeted it. Raindrops pooled into the dirt, leaving small puddles in unfilled holes. Raindrops slammed against the windows of the farmer’s home, leaving streaks where they touched. The farmer, warm and dry inside his home, watched as the rain covered the land - and all the seeds drank, refreshed, until the very last raindrop fell.

Nature was quiet. There were few sounds other than birds chirping loudly, and a gentle breeze rustling the leaves on trees. Once in a while, a vehicle passed down the winding gravel road. The sun shone down on the watered soil, and cows grazed in the pasture. There was not much to occur in the life of a plant. The barren land had not begun to grow.

Nighttime fell. When the sun arose in the morning, the caw of a rooster roused the sunflower seed. It was damp and rather cold, but the heat of the spring sun would soon bring warmth. A noise came from the farmhouse: the shutting of a heavy door. The farmer, dressed in his gardening boots, trudged through the grass. There was much grass surrounding the home. It was in need of a cut. Two farm dogs, large and playful, barked as they chased birds. After planting seeds, the farmer always left some out for the birds.

The sunflower seed stretched. It bathed in the sunlight, but was not yet ready to poke its head from the soil. A mower roared to life: the farmer atop it, listening to music through a speaker as he tended to the lawn. This did not take much time, as the farmer was efficient and practiced. When the lawn was finished, he moved onto the garden: sprinkling his seeds with water, listening as they gulped. Soon, the once-barren garden would be filled with life. As the sunflower grew, it would transform from a tiny seed to a magnificent beam. Truly, the farmer’s sunflowers were always the talk of the town. In past years, travelers had come from out of town to cast a glance upon the sunflower field, longing to have a field quite as lovely.

There were many varieties of sunflower, in many varieties of shades and sizes. To maximize the beauty and splendor of his garden, the farmer sprinkled the soil with many different seeds and beans. Each grew at its own pace, adding its own image to the garden. There were scarecrows in the field, and bird feeders in the trees. A large wire fence encircled the garden. It was not uncommon for the farmer’s crops to be damaged or eaten by animals. After many years, he had learned to identify the culprit by the pattern of damage on a plant. A deer would consume a plant. A rabbit would nibble a stem. The farmer did not dislike wildlife; he had an affinity for it. He would not set out an inhumane trap or sprinkle his garden with chemicals. He had been known to feed deer and handcraft wooden birdhouses. The farmer made a living by taking on odd tasks: performing handiwork or selling his crops at a market. He was a well-known man in the area, and his work was sought after.

Above the surface, the garden was nothing to look at. The dirt was moist and cool; underneath the soil, it was home to small creatures like earthworms and moles, who were welcome in the garden. The farmer, in fact, provided the worms with his food scraps whenever he could. A mole sniffed the sunflower seed. The mole would not eat it. It burrowed on, feasting on worms and ants.

When days became weeks, the last spring frost appeared: settling over the lawn and garden. A sunflower took many months to bloom; the farmer was a patient man. When the sunflower seed broke apart, it would discover its roots. Until then, it rested, soaking up the water from the garden sprinkler. With each sip, the seed grew a little more. There were sunflower seeds next to it, a couple of feet away on either side. The little seed spoke to them.

Each day, the farmer tended to his garden. Each day, the sunflower drank and basked in the sun, until its first roots emerged. This was a turning point for the sunflower seed: the point where it went from a helpless embryo to a tiny seedling. From that moment on, its life had begun. When summer came, the little seed and its friends would be the talk of the town.

Spring progressed. Every week, the farmer took a trip to the city, returning with grocery essentials or outdoor supplies. Often, he baked pies to sell. Rarely, he returned with a friend. He wasn’t a man with many friends - but city-goers knew of his aptitude for horticulture, and many found themselves questioning his techniques. There was a particular formula to growing the perfect garden. Inexperienced gardeners buried seeds in the wrong type of soil, or planted crops at the wrong time of year, or performed small mistakes an experienced gardener would not overlook. It was these sorts of mistakes the farmer would advise others against. He sat in the grass, leaning back in a lawn chair, a large glass of iced tea in his hand. Life in the countryside was peaceful and slow-paced; the farmer never rushed. He had no neighbours for miles. Life had not always been this way. As a younger man, the farmer had lived in the city: it was bustling and loud, with hardly any time for relaxation. He’d worked an office job, doing the same tasks every day, with hardly a penny to show for it. A man was not meant to live that way. A man ought to wind down once in a while.

He was in his forties when he moved to the countryside. He was an amateur gardener then, relying on advice from men older than him. That was the way it went. He passed down advice to younger men, who passed it to younger men. Of course, years of experience and knowledge could not just be given. Even with his tips, inexperienced gardeners did not learn without doing. It took many years of doing to master a skill.

The sunflower grew slowly, but steadily. Its new stem was small, and its first leaves delicate. It was comfortable in the soil, absorbing its water and nutrients. The first signs of life had appeared in the garden: small green seedlings, poking their heads from the soil. The farmer spoke fondly of his progress, tracking it closely, as though his garden was a newborn baby in need of close watch. There were animals in the fields.

Summer had come. Birds sang loudly, the grass grew green, and animals grazed in the pasture. It was very hot. With too little water, the sunflowers would droop and wilt. With too much, they would suffocate. It took, of course, many mistakes to understand perfection. The farmer had a system. He allowed nobody else to tend to his garden, even those who were experienced gardeners themselves. He had drowned many sunflowers. He had learned to grow the tallest, most awe-inspiring sunflowers of them all.

The garden grew. The farmer’s corn stalk became tall and leafy, and his wheat stalk much the same. He grew lilies and carrots and poppies. He grew potatoes and black-eyed Susan. Each grew at their own pace, in their own way. Each added a charm and a story to the fields. The once-barren soil became bright and lively, bringing life to what once had been nothing but empty space. The first traveler, who had heard of the garden’s splendour, arrived from a city miles away. There were always travelers passing through. Some would cast their gaze upon the farmer’s garden: stopping to ask how he’d grown such a beautiful sight. Every gardener had their secret. Every traveler wanted to know of it - but the thing about a secret was this: the more people who knew of it, the less of a secret it became. In the same way that a magician did not reveal his tricks, a gardener revealed only the most basic knowledge to those who asked. The farmer had been an amateur once too, and every beginner had to make mistakes. This built character.

Again, it rained: not a thunderous rain, but a soft one. It was a rain that tickled the leaves of the plants, and quietly washed the trees. Summer rain was different from spring rain. It was warmer and gentler, leaving a refreshing smell in the air. Rain was always preceded by a smell. Sometimes, the farmer enjoyed getting caught in a rain shower. It reminded him to slow down for a moment, or to smell the flowers on his way home. Sometimes, after a rain shower, he’d pluck some flowers from the ground, bringing them home to place in his windowsill.

The sunflower expanded its leaves. They were no longer small and delicate, but thick and strong. Its stem had grown long, easily absorbing food from the soil. It talked to the earthworms that burrowed around its roots, and to the moles that made homes underground. It spoke, also, to the crops that had been planted after it, encouraging them to grow. Even the strongest, tallest, and most beautiful plants could not grow without encouragement.

A sunflower could grow to ten or fifteen feet tall, and the farmer’s often did. They lit up the field: bright shades of yellow, pink, and orange. On days when the clouds sat low in the sky, the flowers seemed to reach up and touch them.