These beautiful pre-spring days get me to thinking about gardening. Not that I have much of a green thumb nor that I am an avid gardener, but something in the air makes me long to see things sprouting.

Now my grandmama was a gardener. She started her garden early and by the end of May she had quite an abundance of produce available only a few steps from the kitchen door. There would be potatoes, early peas, radishes, carrots, and onions the size of a softball. Oh what a summer feast she could prepare from that garden.

I guess you have surmised by now that my grandmama was a worker. No grass grew under her feet. She rose early and cooked breakfast, a full breakfast with plenty of homemade biscuits. There were always plenty of biscuits left over because a cold biscuit was the favorite snack of us grandkids. I remember my little cousin asking, “Granny, is you got a biscuit?”

As soon as the kitchen was back in order she took the milk bucket from the hook and headed to milk the cow. I can still see her walking down the path to the barn. Standing about five and a half feet tall, she probably would have weighed in at 90 pounds soaking wet. Slight as she was, she had an air of determination and authority about her that we all respected, and the old cow did as well.

She kept her long gray hair pulled straight back and coiled in a bun at the back of her head. When she was working she wore a head rag, as she called it. It was a square of material that she folded into a triangle. Then, she would place it on her head like a scarf and tie it behind at the base of her neck.

The simple calico dress she wore was made by my mama. All her dresses were made by the same pattern, a simple bodice that buttoned up the front. It was gathered full at the waist and dropped to right above the ankle. Over the dress she always wore an apron tied around her waist.

As soon as the milking was finished it was time to start preparing lunch. First, she would gather what she needed from the garden. Then it was back to the kitchen where she prepared the vegetables and made cornbread. It was always a full meal, no sandwiches on Grandmama’s table. By 11:00 sharp “dinner” was ready.

I remember one spring day after “dinner”, Grandmama hooked up the plow to Old George, the mule, to plow the garden. She had to go back into the house for something so she drove Old George up to the back porch steps. She had me sit on the steps and placed the plow lines in my small hands. “Now sit right here and don’t move. I’ll be right back”, she told me.

I guess I was about seven years old at the time and the temptation was just too much for me. I watched Grandmama go into the house. As soon as the screen door closed behind her I knew what I was going to do. Bracing myself I gently shook the reins. Then I whispered, “Gitup” like I had seen Grandmama do so many times before. Old George just stood there nonplussed looking straight ahead.

,Getting no results from my first attempt I decided I’d try again. This time I put a little more vigor in the shake of the lines. “Gitup!”, I said in a little louder voice. Old George turned and gave me a dull glance, then resumed his gaze out across the field.

Now, “I know I can do this,” I thought. Grasping the lines tightly I gave them a sharp whip and yelled, “Gitup!!”. This time Old George put one foot forward, then the other, then the other. I pulled back with all my might and screamed, “Whoa! WHOA!”

That mule paid no attention but just kept walking, pulling me along behind. I had gotten him going and now I couldn’t stop him. What was I going to do? I was holding on with all my might, heels digging two trenches in the sand of the old road bed. Old George was running away! “Help! Help!” I screamed.

Grandmama came running out of the house. She grabbed the plow lines. Pulling on them with her slight frame in a voice of authority she ordered, “Whoa, mule!” Old George stopped in his tracks.

My heart was pounding. My knees were trembling. The incident had left me faint. I was very surprised and hurt to find that Grandmama was so amused at my near death experience. She laughed and laughed. The fact was, Old George, bored and disgusted with me, had decided to lumber back to the barn.

That was my first and last attempt at plowing.