The hot, powdery sand sifts into every nook of my flip flop clad feet. It’s the same sand from which a garden has annually erupted for as long as I can remember - more than 3 decades. The same except for the fluffing of it by fertilizer — some years from the best fertilizer — shoveled from the chicken coop by my sister and me. The same except for the fertilizer and the various crops of vegetables that have been rotated through to ward off the weariness from the same ole plants year in and year out. Gardens get bored too.
Close to embarrassing myself in front of citified nephews that have no idea what a potato plant looks like, I recognize the row of plants from which my Dad has already enjoyed several suppers. Prying the plant from the ground takes a bit of doing. The soil is hard and protective of the treasure it hides. Large and small, red and white, the pebbled potatoes show themselves. The tops are chopped; the potatoes drop into a brown paper bag. The same befalls the onions.
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