This morning I encountered good dirt. Only a true gardener knows the feel, the scent, the ease of digging in a spot of rich, dark, moist soil. Scratching through it with my 3-pronged digger serves a couple of purposes I suppose: oxygen is delivered to the roots of nearby plants and happiness fills my heart. One doesn't want to leave the garden when such a discovery is made and my morning shower was postponed until 11.
Good dirt in Utah is not easy to come by. We do not have the advantage of centuries of decaying forest or plant materials to enrich our garden beds where we lovingly place tender roots. A discovery of good dirt makes one recognize the hands that brought such soil into existence. I've always been in awe of my mother's good dirt and am beginning to appreciate my own.
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