Nate squatted in the tall weeds to peer at the soil. He scraped up some of the dry, crusty soil with a nearby rock. Sifting the flaky residue through his hands, he shifted to one knee. A voice startled him.
“You ok there, fella?”
Nate squinted up, trying to appear unruffled by the sudden sound. A tall, lankly silhouette blocked the sun. Nate rose, the last of the dirt trickling through his fingers.
“Whacha lookin’ at? Thought you was sick or sumpin’,” the silhouette spoke.
Nate dusted his hands on his pants. “I’m ok. The soil. Not sick. Nate Bruce.” He answered all the questions as he stretched out his hand.
The silhouette took form, accepting the dusty hand, “Jon Richards.”
Jon Richards was lanky and decidedly weathered. He wore a 70’s trucker cap at a jaunty angle, not like a gangbanger, but more like he caught it with his head after tossing it in the air. “Why ya lookin’ at the soil?” He pronounced it sawl, with a soft drawl.
“I plan to farm this land,” Nate replied.
“You own it?” came the response.
Nate laughed, “Of course, I bought it six months ago at an auction.”
Jon shook his head, “Did you look at it before you bought it?”
“Only the pictures on the internet.”
Jon, embarrassed, turned to stare at the horizon, “There’s better land to farm over yonder,” he gestured vaguely. “They must have took them internet pictures after the rain last year.” Then, suddenly turning back, “Where you been farmin’?”
Nate shrugged, “I haven’t. I have been in sales. I’ve always wanted to get out of the city, relax, and grow something.”
Jon guffawed, “Like that ole TV show – Green Acres.”
Nate laughed along politely.
“Well, you ain’t gonna grow much up ‘ere on this ridge. This has been overworked, most of the topsoil blew off or washed down the hill. There’s too much rock pokin’ up now. If I was to grow anything on this place, I’d try Nelda’s ole garden.”
“Nelda’s old garden?” Nate queried.
“Yep, see them two trees,” Jon pointed down the ridge, further off the road.
Nat nodded. Two tall, thick oaks spread branches almost to the ground.
Jon continued, “That’s the ole home place. Nelda grew her garden jus’ the other side of them trees. She was always dumpin’ her dish water out there, and throwin’ table scraps around. She’d even run sheep in there in the winter. Best ‘maters I ever ate. Richest soil around, that acre.”
“Acre?” Nate questioned, “I plan on farming more than an acre.”
Again a guffaw. “If you a city boy, an’ ain’t never farmed, and want ta relax, then an acre‘ll be a real good challenge. On the other hand, if you were thinkin’ about a crop a melons, that flat spot the other side of the creek ought to give ya ‘bout five acres of sandy sweetness.” Jon gestured again, vaguely.
“So, no hope for this ridge?” Nate inquired.
“Ah,” Jon pulled up his cap and scratched his head, “it’ll jus take a while. I wouldn’t say no hope. It ain’t the soil’s fault, it ain’t the seeds fault. A feller jus gotta know when to plant.” The two ambled slowly back towards their vehicles. “Next time, don’t park in the ditch. People‘ll think ya had a wreck.” Nate looked at his SUV, Jon was pulled up behind him, still on the gravel road.
“Appreciate the advice,” Nate said with a slight grin.
“No problem,” came the reply. They shook hands and moved to their separate vehicles. At the door, Jon paused, “Nate.”
“Yes,” Nate looked back.
“If you are gonna farm, get a truck.”
