It is a fact that I come from a long line of dirt lovers. There is plenty of family history that’s unknown, but our passion for the earth is well documented.
My great-grandfather had an old icebox on his property that he kept stocked with soil and earthworms. The worms were meant to be used as bait for fishing, but he understood my love of turning the dirt simply to watch those little guys wiggle. The soil was rich and dark and beckoned you to reach out and touch it.
I really don’t remember any toys at my grandparents house (except for The Spirograph which might have been the best toy ever) but we were never bored.
We went outside. We climbed trees. We rode the tractor. We found arrowheads. We chased chickens. We caught grasshoppers. We planted, watered and weeded the garden. We got dirty. And we loved every minute of it.
We only have one child and yet we seem to own more toys than most families with a slew of kids. And nothing makes me happier than when she abandons all of those brightly-colored, age-appropriate, educationally-advancing, noise-making gadgets to go dig in the dirt with me.
