Oh, the glory of springtime when the earth yawns and wakes from winter’s sleep. Buttercups, the greening of the grass, returning birds, and budding trees announce Mother Nature’s coming out party.
Much can be said of springtime and its intoxicating spell. If you are feeling well, you are liken to “a spring chicken.” Inordinate behavior of both young and old is blamed on “spring fever.” Of course, the stress level of our modern world has made it necessary to have a “spring break.” And who can find a young lady, regardless of her age, who would not like to be described as “a breath of spring?” We even “spring” forward at the changing of our clocks as daylight savings time is ushered in.
As winter begrudgingly loses its grip, hope “springs” eternal.
Many are the springs I observed my late father “spring” into action. It seemed he could never get started early enough. Come the first warm day of February, he couldn’t sit still. He saw there was much to be done - plant beds to be set in order, tobacco patches to be made ready for “setting,” and all the details involved in getting the next crop in the ground.
Come March, he would be watching over his tobacco plant beds like a mother hen. A potential late frost would have him doubling the plant bed canvas. And I remember a few springs when he built fires along side plant beds to ward off the chill.
Of course, he claimed all bragging rights that came with early success. At the country store he would announce to his peers, “Boys, I’ve got plants as big as a thumb tack,” or, “I’ve got plants as big as a dime!” When the growing plants had leaves as big as a quarter, he would say, “Boys, I’ve got plants leaving the ground!” All the while, he was planning ahead.
I never recall his being unprepared. If he was not tending to plant beds or “working” tobacco ground, he was taking care of the “little things” that made for a smooth operation.
In my 12th year, Little League Baseball came to Smith County. I played for the Giants in my first and final year. In the ensuing years my younger brothers played. Our father allowed us to play though he rarely attended our games. Baseball players have been called “the boys of summer,” but I submit they should be called “the boys of springtime.” Of course, springtime is planting time. We saw ballplaying as a privilege made possible by our father’s hard work. While we played ball, he stayed at home preparing for the next day’s work.
He would often chide, “We are going to lose a crop over all this ballplaying.” My, how things have changed!
In the month leading up to tobacco setting, Frank McCall would have gathered every two-and-a-half-bushel wash tub, bushel basket, orange crate, sturdy cardboard box, and any other container that would hold tobacco plants (slips.) He would have greased and gone over the tobacco setter with “a fine- tooth comb.” The engine and water pump would have been tuned and ready to go, the water tank filled ahead of time.
In all the years he orchestrated tobacco setting, we never experienced a breakdown.
Springtime - a time for doing – a time for preparation - a time to swing into action. And a time for breathing in the wonder of life.
And above all, a time for celebrating an empty tomb.
Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall
