Hands in the Dirt

Growing up on a ranch in the country,

I learned the value of having my

hands in the dirt.


That is when, I believe, the best thinking occurs.

It is such a humble act.


My father would say ‘I came by it honest’,

as did my Grandmother Mills,

and my aunts,

and my mother,

and of course my father.


Whether it happens on a little league field,

or in a garden of tomatoes,

or zinnias,

or a dry land farm full of grain,

it is an act that allows us to say

we are simple people,

with simple humble values,

and an appreciation for the simple things in life.

At a little league game this past week,

while watching my oldest grandson wait patiently on first base,

waiting for the perfect moment to steal second,

as he let handfuls of dirt run through his fingers,

I began to grin because I realized he gets it too.


He has an old soul.

Don’t however be fooled by his relaxed state.


Even in my family’s love of the simple things,

we can move pretty fast when we need to.


He stole home.