As a small child maybe four or five.

I looked forward to the weekend when my dad would be around.

In the spring we would be out in the garden.

Getting seeds planted to give us fresh food in the days to come.

A job I always liked was planting the potatoes.

He would get his spade from the shed wooden handled with a shining blade.

A bucket of seed potatoes put in my charge.

A line was put across the bed to keep the rows neat.

He would push the shining blade into the ground using a giant’s boot.

Push the spades smooth handle to one side.

Leaving a slit between the earth and the back of the spade.

With my little hand I pushed the seed potato down into its slot.

Then hold it there while the spade was gently withdrawn.

Dad would cover and close the slit with his giant’s boots.

Then onto the next until all the seed was gone.

A day spent in the garden with my dad and mum made me a happy son.

As the year moved on we would eat the fruits of our labour.

My mother grew the soft fruit that gave us jam for the year.

We would pick and store the apples and pears.

The plums we ate as they ripened and turned the surplus into jam.

After the autumn digging was all done.

The cleaned and oiled spade in the shed was hung.

To wait in the darkness for another spring to come.

When my dad and I would call it into service once again.

Idyllic