The Family Nobody Wanted by Helen Doss

Author:Helen Doss [Doss, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Northeastern University Press
Published: 1954-12-26T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9

Farmers in the Dell

WHEN we moved to Forestville, we were too busy to think about putting in a garden, especially with the extra church work at first, then the adoptions of Timmy and Alex.

Finally our budget stared me in the face and I knew that a garden was something more than just a nice thing to have. The time had come when it was a plain, unvarnished necessity.

“We’ll simply have to raise part of our food,” I told Carl, after adding up our grocery bills in a stunned silence. He was earning $2800 a year now. His income had been rising steadily, but the postwar cost of living had risen more steadily.

“Good idea,” he murmured. He was working on a sermon.

“The salary doesn’t go very far, for nine people.”

He shook his head absently.

“The soil here must be rich, because the weeds come nearly to my shoulder. In fact they’re so high I couldn’t possibly spade them under, myself. So that’s where you come in.”

“Ummm,” Carl murmured, crossing something out and writing furious notes on the next page.

“Everyone in Forestville is putting in a spring garden, already. You ought to get out with a spade, first thing in the morning.”

“Sure,” Carl said. “Can you remember exactly how that quotation from St. Francis of Assisi goes, something about where there is hatred let us sow love . . . ?”

“I could look it up in a book,” I said. “Besides, it would be good exercise.”

Carl looked up, puzzled. “Since when is reading a book good exercise?”

“I was talking about you digging us a garden. Where there is hunger, let us sow vegetables.”

“Oh,” Carl said. “Oh, the garden. Well, don’t fret about it. I’ll get to it, when I’m not so busy.”

But Carl continued busy. Sunday services at two churches, pastoral calls in the homes, membership-training classes, evening discussion groups, choir practice, potluck dinners, church socials, committee meetings, official board meetings—was there no end? The weeds in the back yard continued to flourish, and so did our grocery bills.

“If you could just start the spading,” I said wistfully, “I could be planting seeds.”

“We’ll dig the ground for you, Mama,” Donny volunteered.

“Just give us a shubble,” Teddy said.

“You children may use the shovels in the garage,” I said. “But you couldn’t possibly turn the ground over, if Mama can’t.”

The next time I looked, the children had a hole five feet deep beside my clothesline post, where the weeds had been tromped down. The clothesline post gave a sigh and toppled in.

“But you children have to keep digging sideways, not straight down, if you want a garden,” I explained. “Anyway, I think this is too big a job for you.”

“Anyway, we’re tired of digging,” Donny said, and they all drifted off, leaving the shovels scattered in the weeds.

Like the little red hen, I decided to do it myself. After my first back-cracking day, I had but one row turned under, and planted to radishes. The next day I was inspired. Instead of bothering to

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