Onions in the Ground and Sunshine on My Back
I didn’t realize how much I missed the sun until it landed on my shoulders this morning, warm and weightless, like a blessing.
After days of mist and wind and chill, today opened up with clear skies and that golden kind of light that makes everything look cleaner, sharper, awake. I walked barefoot from the porch to the garden and felt—for the first time in weeks—dry earth under my toes. Not dusty. Not muddy. Just firm, giving, ready.
And I was ready too.
A Slow Start with Hazel’s Brood
Before anything else, I checked on Hazel and the chicks. I’ve been doing that first thing every morning—before coffee, before chores, sometimes even before brushing my hair. Priorities, right?
They’re perfect.
The four of them are little bundles of motion now—pecking, hopping, hiding under Hazel one second and scrambling over her back the next. She clucks and fusses, but she’s gentle with them, patient in that way only animals and old women seem to master.
This morning, one of the golden chicks fell asleep standing up, its tiny head bobbing until it toppled over into a sibling. I sat on a milk crate and laughed out loud.
There’s nothing urgent in those moments. Just a stillness that feels like prayer.
Onion Planting — The Gift That Keeps Giving
I had that bundle of slips from Mrs. Harper to plant today—thirty or so small, papery onions wrapped in newspaper and kindness.
I chose the raised bed closest to the kitchen window, where I usually grow herbs. It gets plenty of morning sun and good drainage, which onions love. I worked in a little aged compost and sifted the topsoil with my hands. No tiller. No shovel. Just hands and breath and time.
I planted them two fingers deep, about four inches apart:
- Some yellow sweet
- A handful of red storage
- A few mystery bulbs Mrs. Harper just labeled “dinner onions” (which sounds promising)
As I worked, the goats called from across the fence, the chickens scratched lazily in the mulch, and a soft breeze stirred the clothesline. It felt like the farm was humming—a low, steady chord of contentment.
I thought about Evelyn and her green Ford, her peppermint scent, the way she passed those onion slips into my hand like they were treasure. And I guess they were. Not just food—but a gesture. A thread in the fabric of this small rural life that we all help weave.
Compost Turning and Sun Therapy
With the onions tucked in and watered, I turned the compost again, mostly just to feel useful. The pile steamed a little when I forked it open, the inner layers still warm and moist from the rain.
The act of turning compost always puts me in a reflective mood. Maybe it’s the smell—earthy, sharp, alive. Or maybe it’s the reminder that all the waste, all the scraps, all the things that felt used up… become something new. Something fertile. Something full of hope.
I spent the next hour in the sun, pulling early weeds from the edges of the beds and fluffing the straw around the garlic. I got dirt under my nails and freckles on my arms and didn’t check the clock once.
Little Fixes, Big Satisfaction
I had a few leftover minutes before lunch, so I repaired the bottom slat on the coop door—the one the hens had nearly kicked loose. A couple of screws, a little wood glue, and it’s solid again.
There’s no real drama in these little repairs, but they add up. A tightened hinge here, a mended bucket there. It’s like whispering love into the bones of the place.
I’ve always believed that tending land is more about noticing than managing. Notice what’s leaning. What’s wilting. What’s shifting underfoot. That’s how you stay in sync with it.
Supper and a Porch Nap
After a quick rinse and a change of clothes, I made supper:
- Baked sweet potatoes with butter and cracked pepper
- Steamed kale from last week’s harvest
- Fried eggs with a few curls of goat cheese on top
I ate on the porch again—barefoot, plate on my lap, Hazel’s faint clucks drifting through the spring air like a lullaby. The sun was just starting to lean low, casting that golden edge on everything.
And then I did something I haven’t done in a long time.
I napped.
Right there in the porch swing, hands still smelling faintly of onions and cedar. Twenty minutes, maybe. Just long enough for a bluejay to squawk me back into the waking world.
It felt like grace.
Final Thoughts
Today was slow in the way only a productive day can be slow. No rush. No panic. Just the rhythm of soil and sweat and songbirds.
I planted onions, yes. But I also planted joy. I tended peace. I harvested a sense of belonging.
March is winding down now, and everything feels on the edge of bursting—blossoms, plans, energy. Soon it will be April, and the garden will demand more of me. But today, it simply asked me to be present.
And I was.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek