Reflection on receiving the Golden Shovel Award
You may have gathered from previous posts that my father and I had a complicated relationship. Not that much different from most fathers and sons.
Each spring, after the ground thawed, Dad and I would take his FarmAll2 tractor out of our barn and slosh our way across the muddy paths between two stubble-filled corn fields. We collected trailers full of sand from a half-acre pit to be used in a soil mix for transplanting thousands of seedlings. Geraniums and pansies for Memorial Day customers. Flats of veggie plants to plant in our commercial gardens for sale to restaurants, food stores and in the stand in front of our house on Plymouth Street. Backing up the trailer directly to the edge of last year’s borrow pit where sand is cleanest was not an easy skill for me to master, but over time and with constant instruction, I could do it very slowly. Each time I started the manuever, there was always the possibility of a reprimand.
I remember one time when my effort must have been deemed acceptable, as
there was no critique.
“Okay, Bobby. Stop. Just right.”
“Maybe a little further?”
“No. Just right,” said Dad as he reached into the open side-board trailer and
grabbed two pointed shovels with long handles.
For a few minutes we both stood together leaning on the shovels inspecting the
deep hole. At sixteen I was tall as he, but he was much more sturdily built. A good body
for a farmer to have. I was lanky with a runner’s body. Built more like the men in Mom’s
family.
We walked around the pit than down into it, taking positions on the side opposite
the trailer which was parked at our shoulder’s height.
“Bob, stand a little bit further away from me. We don’t want to hit each other.”
Didn’t he think I was smart enough not to be too close. We had done this a few
times before. Was I dumb? Sometimes I was sure he thought so.
He went first. Placed the blade point into the damp sand. He stepped down on
the tool’s shoulder until his foot was flat on the ground. Then with one swift lift he tossed
the load off the blade. It traveled in one seemingly solid piece into the center of the flat
bed. He concluded the toss with a deep breath and looked over to me. I didn’t respond,
so he repeated his perfect dig and toss; then stood back to stare at me again.
“Okay, your turn. Remember what I told you last year. You want to get the full shovel
going straight ahead before releasing the load with a flip.”
A flip? What was this? The Farmer Olympics? What was the fucking, big deal
about using a shovel? It was the same way he treated all these little farming skills. I
used a dibble wrong when we were transplanting. The hose was never put back on its
rack correctly. Whether I did these things right or wrong, it didn’t matter to me.
With the shovel point piercing the surface, I stepped on the shoulder and nearly
drove it all the way down. Not quite. Perhaps that took a point off my score. When the
blade carried the load up into the air, there was a bit of movement to one side. More
points off. The sand sprayed all over the place with only half making the target. I knew
what was going to happen, now.
“You still don’t get the toss correctly. The shovel is not moving straight. That’s
why the sand flies all over the place. Try again.”
Once more the sand sprayed all over, but this time most went into the trailer. He
saw that I was trying hard to do it right, so he said nothing. Perhaps he also knew from
the look I gave him that I was angry. We worked for a half-hour, until the trailer was
heavy with its load. Then he stood back and watched me take one more toss.
“Hey, I think you are getting it. Good job, son. Just a little more practice and you
will ------”
Cutting him off mid-sentence, I threw my shovel into the trailer like a javelin and
shouted at him.
“Practice? You think I want to practice using a shovel anymore? Dad, I don’t
need to know this stuff. Never in my life will I need to know how to dig sand. I am going
to college to get away from farming.”
Saying nothing, he slowly walked around the pit and laid his shovel carefully in
the loaded sand. He then climbed slowly up into the tractor seat and turned the key. As
he drove away, leaving me behind to cool down, I began to cry.
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In 2013, when I left Charlestown to live in South Waterford, the local Garden
Club elected me to their Gardeners Hall of Fame as a reward for twenty years of
volunteer work and the many residential gardens I had designed and built in Boston. I
received the Golden Shovel Award. It was an honor to receive their coveted miniature
shovel. When I showed it to my ninety-four-year-old father, he held it in his hand for a
moment, then smiled and shook my hand. He was glad I had learned to use the tool.
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