A woman's hands

Today's temperature was around 80 degrees.  The sun was shining, and as I walked down the hill to the chicken yard I was smiling.  I'd awoken after 5 or 6 hours of daytime sleep (to prepare for my night shift of work) around 4pm, with several hours of gorgeous daylight left in which to work.  How I love the lengthening days of Spring!  After a quick check on the chickies (the remaining babies are vigorous and growing at an alarming rate) and a bit of breakfast, it was time to go about the day's work.

Today I broke sod on another 100 square feet of garden space.  It was hard physical labor with a shovel, but as the chunks of grass piled up on either side of the 4' wide row I was digging, I found myself grinning like an idiot.  We have 12 cubic yards of yummy compost coming our way, and I am pleased to find that even though the soil is on the heavy clay side, the drainage in this area is much better than I thought.  With a good double-digging, we should be able to grow whatever we want there.

While I was working, our neighbor across the way rolled up on his little tractor.  He introduced himself and offered to lend us any tools we need, seems like a very nice older gentleman.  I was happy to make his acquaintance, as I'm curious about our neighbors and missing the sense of community that we had at our apartment.  I love having the  space and the solitude that our property gives us, but I do like knowing who lives near us and that I can knock on their doors if I need a post hole digger or a cup of sugar. 

By the end of the row, I was sweaty, swarmed by gnats, and sore.  I sat on the fence and looked at the reddish brown earth revealed before me.  I looked over my shoulder beyond the greenhouse at our four hens scratching happily in the grass and leaves in their newly fenced run. 

I looked to my right to see the mallard couple (Seamus and Brigid, as we have named them) paddling at a leisurely pace around the pond, and about a dozen turtles sunning themselves on the bank.  The sky was beginning to darken, both because of the approaching dusk and the storm clouds moving in from the west. 

I looked down at my hands, cut up and burnt and dirty as they were, my fingernails trimmed short but still harboring soil from the day's labor.  My hands will never be pretty, well-manicured, soft and delicate like the hands of so many women I know.  This fact used to bother me.  But I realize now that my hands do the work of turning over earth, compressing the chest walls of dying people, scrubbing cast iron with scalding water, comforting the sick, and carrying fire wood.  They may not be pretty, but they do Good Work.