This article is from the Summer 2022 Agraria Journal.

By Tia Stuart

As the cool morning flows into the warm afternoon,
I lace up my black work boots and throw on my comfortable, lightweight farm hoodie.
Walking outside, I pull my leather work gloves out of my pocket and slip them on.

Instead of getting straight down to business,
I stop momentarily when I step onto the grass.
I close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath of fresh spring air.
Head tilted upward, delightful rays of healing sunlight caress my face, and I smile.
I exhale, open my eyes, and walk in the direction of the big gray barn, smile still intact.

Shifting quickly past the newly erected volleyball net,
I spot its lonely looking partner, the ball, under a nearby maple tree.
It sure would be nice to play a game or two, I dream,
but with all the work that needs to be done, who has time for that?

The youngest two of my crew have made it outside before me
and are pulling a large metal wagon just beyond the barn.
“Mom!” the ‘baby’ of the family shouts excitedly as she darts toward me.
We embrace, do our customary hug-dance and I kiss her soft, hazelnut colored cheek.

“Do you work here today, Sweet Pumpkin?” I ask.
That’s my way of asking if she would like to help me get some work done around the farm.
“Yes ma’am,” she sparks, face bright with a grin. “What are we going to do?”
Rolling back the large barn door, I step inside, grab a few shovels and turn to face her again.
“We’re going to plant some shrubs today,” I say.

Even though she’s just five years old,
this is not her first shrub planting party.
In fact, she’s been helping plant shrubs ever since she could smooth dirt out on the ground.

“We need the wagon, the hose, a few five-gallon buckets, and my transplanting bag…
…You can get the wagon and some buckets…
…and I’ll get the hose and my transplanting bag.”
Going in separate directions, we start out to get the necessary supplies.

When we meet again at the same place from whence we departed,
I place the shovels and my transplanting bag in the wagon.
“What’s in that bag?” she wonders out loud.
I unzip the bag, open it wide so that she can peer into it and I begin to explain its contents.

The bag seems to have everything in it but the wash-station sink.
Pruners, knives, and scissors.
Pencils, pens, and markers.
Paper, plastic and metal plant stakes.
Bags in various shapes and sizes. Some old, some new, some paper, some plastic.
There are more items, but if I continue to list them, this might turn into a novel.

After showing her all that’s inside,
I zip the bag back up and grab the handle of the wagon.
I notice that something is missing from our supply list.
“Hey, where are the buckets, Brown Girl?” I inquire.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs.
“That’s okay, I reassure her.
“I’m pretty sure that we already have a few back on the compost pile
and that’s what we need them for anyway,”

I stride toward the propagation beds where I keep plant starts of all sorts,
wagon handle in hand.
She runs ahead and plops down in the new plastic seat on the old metal swing set.
Yeah, it’s old, but it’s still safe and does a grand job providing amusement.

“Would you like to help me dig up the shrubs
or swing for a while and then help me plant the shrubs?” I ask.
She opts for the latter.

Just as I had imagined, digging up the shrubs isn’t a difficult task.
These beds are kept moist and mulched.
My stainless-steel soil knife penetrates the dirt with ease
and as I work steadily to get the shrubs uprooted,
I sing a song of thanksgiving to the Creator Who sustains me.

Depositing the last shrub into a large black plastic bag
sitting in the wagon
I call out, “It’s time to plant, Sweet Pumpkin.”

She drags her feet against the ground to halt the swing,
jumps up and dashes toward me.
We stroll out to the field
to park the shrubs in their permanent resting place.

Many hands make work light, I think to myself.
One of my sons has prepared a forever home for each little plant.
I’m grateful.

Having holes “plant-ready” just cut my labor by two-thirds, I figure.
I’ll use the extra time to get more lettuce and peas planted, I plot.
No, maybe I should suggest a family game of volleyball, I reconsider.
Yes, I can plant the lettuce and peas tomorrow, I plan.
Volleyball it is, I decide.

The last shrub is set in place and Baby Girl, ever the trooper,
smooths the dirt out on the ground surrounding the plant.
“All done!” I announce, breaking out into a little happy dance.
Now we’re both dancing
and laughing
and hugging.
It’s time to go inside to prepare supper.
I’ll make lentils, greens and rice.
And after supper,
Volleyball!

Tia Stuart is director of BIPOC Farming Initiatives at Agraria, RFF coordinator, and operates The Narrow Way Farm with her family.

Click here read the full Summer 2022 issue of the Agraria Journal.