Feel of soil carries gardener into past

As a kid, I loved to play in the dirt. Among the many trees on our family farm were two large maple trees in the front yard. One of them had a large root that protruded through the ground. I would sit on that root and dig in the dirt, creating pathways for make-believe vehicles or mounds of dirt to plow through.

Soil was a part of our lives from a young age. I

joke that my seven siblings and I were in the cornfield pulling weeds as soon as we could tell a weed from a corn seedling. And if someone accidentally pulled the corn, you'd hear about it from Dad. The eight kids helped our parents on our 88-acre farm in rural Madison County.

We grew crops such as soybeans, field corn and wheat in the summer, and we ran a farmers market selling sweet corn, green beans, tomatoes, peppers and peas. It was hard work. Days were spent working in the heat, and nights were spent sleeping in an old farmhouse without air conditioning. But we all survived and developed a strong work ethic.

I used to watch my four brothers and my dad disc the field in preparation for planting. The hard dirt would turn to powder before my eyes, leaving large canals in between where the discs dug into the ground. I loved sticking my hands down into the dirt and feeling it run through my fingers.

That is probably why I love planting flowers and caring for them. My husband and I have an old Victorian house, and what once was grass next to the sidewalk in front is now two flower gardens. We have irises, sage, lamb's ear, daisies and two very old rose bushes, among other perennials. My goal is to have

something blooming from spring through fall. Every year, I rearrange the gardens. I cut back the sage that is crowding out the other flowers, remove day lilies that pop up, and plant other gems I have found.

I don’t like to wear gloves when I work in the garden because I want to feel the dirt. The downside is it is difficult to clean the dirt out from under my fingernails. My nails are cut short, but the dirt finds its way deep under them. A nail brush would tackle the problem quickly and efficiently, but I cannot bring myself to buy one.

The last nail brush I bought was for my mom. She had suffered a stroke in 2015, which left her right side immobile. After a few weeks at rehab, I noticed her fingernails were caked with blanket fuzz and other debris, so I brought a nail brush, clippers and fingernail polish to her room. When I visited, I filled a small bowl with warm water and gently cleaned her nails. Then