Root Jumper Read Free Page A

down on his knees in the ground sifting the loose loamy dirt between his fingers. Kneeling down beside him, the pungent odor of new ground wafted up toward me. I smelled dirt that had lain for many, many years beneath rotting leaves, worms, and insects. He looked up at me, and the pale blue eyes that before had a weary, tired look now were twinkling at me. Excitedly he held up the dirt in his hands. He said, “Sis, I can clear this land of the small trees and saplings, and it will grow a good crop of tobacco. Or I could grow beans and corn on this flat land and have the flat land in the hollow for tobacco. I can get out the old root jumper plow and plow this up in a few days.” Dad worked for a few days clearing out some small trees and saplings.
    The root jumper plow was a necessary evil. No one wanted to use this plow, but if you needed more land, there was no other choice. The plow handles were mostly made from oak. There was a plow blade in front, and in behind the blade was a sharp cutter blade that cut the roots. The plow was rough to handle.
    One evening after supper, Werner and I were playing with our old sock ball when Dad said, “You kids get to bed early. I’m “ hitten” the flat tomorrow morning. It’s going to be a nice day.” We were up early. After breakfast, Dad finished harnessing the horses. He stuck a short pole in the plow to make it easy to drag. It was a short distance to the flat. I grabbed a jug of water, and off we went. Werner and I were plodding along behind Dad and the plow. I stuck my foot ever so slightly into Werner’s foot to make him stumble. He had stumbled a couple of times before he knew what I was doing. I was mad at him because he had eaten all the sugar molasses. We very seldom had sugar to spare. We used mostly sorghum, and I was tired of sorghum. I sat the water jug down and said, “Just for that you can carry the water jug.”
    When we got to the flat, Dad took the pole out of the plow, got everything situated, and placed the reins around his body. He spoke softly to the horses, and the plow slid into the dirt. We took our drinking water and put it in the shade along with our fish worm box. We thought we could catch some fish worms from the turned ground and could lie on the bank and fish in the evening after supper.
    Dad had made a couple of rounds of plowing. I watched as the horses came down the row. When they hit some roots, they pulled mightily together every step. Their great shoulders were straining and their necks were outstretched. The plow was jerking from side to side as Dad labored to control the handles. The roots made a loud popping sound as they were jerked from the ground. Some were more reluctant to let loose from the dirt than others. When the horses came closer, I could see great rolls of white sweat covering their chests and shoulders like froth from the sea.
    When Dad reached the end of the row, he brought the horses, as well as himself, under the shade tree to rest. He could make only about two rows before resting the horses. Dad removed his hat and took out a red bandana handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face. Sweat trickled down his arms and dripped onto the ground. The wind that was blowing through the trees and through the weeds moved the thinning grey hair on Dad’s head. The wind carried the smells of sassafras roots, sourwood sprouts, and the loamy new ground. I took a deep breath and thought, “Oh, how good the wind feels – just like a breath from Heaven.”
    We all took a drink of water. Dad pulled out his case knife to have a little chew. A little Brown’s Mule mixed with home-made tobacco gave me a life time smell of my dad. He spit and spat and smiled to himself.
    In a few minutes, we went back to work. Werner and I were picking up roots and carrying them to the end of the field. We had a large pile. I asked Dad if there were any mandrake roots from the Bible. He laughed and said, “If it was, we would be rich.” We had a nice