Too Hard

“I’m higher than you!” Mitchell shouted as he swung high into the air.

His younger brother, Charlie, pumped his legs faster. “Not any more!” he said.

“Oooh!” squealed Sharla, from the top of the slide. “You’re rocking the play set!”

Just then Papa came around the corner of the house carrying a shovel and a bucket. “Where are my mighty men of valor?” he called. “We have potatoes to dig!”

The boys jumped off the swings and followed him to the garden. “Potatoes?” said Mitchell. “You mean the ones we planted?”

“Yipee! I love digging potatoes!” said Charlie.

“Me, too!” said Sharla. She slid down the slide and ran after her brothers.

“Yes, there is plenty of work for all of us,” said Papa. “We need to get the potatoes dug before it rains this weekend.”

“But they are all dead,” Sharla said, staring at the rows of yellow plants.

“The potatoes are hiding,” explained Papa. “Watch this!” He dug his shovel into the ground. Instead of potatoes, a giant clod of dirt popped up. The children looked at each other and giggled.

“If at first we don’t succeed, we try, try again!” said Papa. He jumped on the shovel and lifted. This time two potatoes popped up.

“There they are!” said Papa.

“I think you cut them in half,” said Mitchell, picking them up.

“We will have to be more careful,” Papa said. “I’ll dig around the hills and you boys can gather the potatoes. Sharla can put them in the bucket.”

Charlie dove into the first potato hill like a gopher. “Here’s a potato!” he called. “But it is kinda small.”

“It is a dolly potato,” said Sharla, dropping it into the bucket.

“Big or small, they will taste good!” Papa said, jumping on the shovel again.

Mitchell dug until his fingers touched a potato. It was difficult to get loose. “This soil is too hard,” he said. “It needs water.”

“Maybe so,” said Papa. “But the garden book said to let it dry out for two weeks. I’ll try to loosen the next hill while you dig those up.” The boys dug up three more small potatoes, and Papa’s shovel found two more.

“We have nine now,” counted Sharla. “Five little ones and four big ones.”

Mitchell looked in the bucket. “And the big ones are all cut,” he said.

“This shovel is too big,” Papa agreed. “Charlie, go and get us the hand trowels. Let’s each take a row and have a potato race!”

“I’ll get more than you!” Charlie said. He began on one plant and Mitchell tried another. At first it was fun to see how many potatoes they could find, but soon they got tired.

“Stop throwing dirt at me!” Mitchell complained. “It nearly got in my eye.”

“Well, how can I help it? This ground is hard as rock,” grumbled Charlie.

“Do your best, boys,” Papa called. “This is harder than we thought, I know. But when we have a good attitude, it isn’t too hard.”

“I wish this ground was soft!” Mitchell grunted as he pried out a potato.

“Why do potatoes have to grow underground anyway?” Charlie asked with a sigh.

“So they can be safe, like rabbits!” Sharla said. “Right, Papa?”

“That’s just the way God made them to grow,” Papa said, standing up to stretch. “Digging will be easier if we sing a song. Have any ideas?”

“We could sing about potatoes,” suggested Sharla.

Papa grinned. “How about, Dig, dig, dig potatoes with a willing smile!”

Mitchell jabbed at a clod of dirt. “I don’t feel like singing,” he muttered.

“I’d rather pick cucumbers or tomatoes,” Charlie said. “I’m hot and dirty and now I have a blister!” He sat on the ground and looked at his hand sadly.

“You get hot and dirty playing,” Papa teased. “You don’t seem to mind it then. Remember, you love digging potatoes!”

“Not anymore,” said Charlie.

Just then a car pulled into the driveway. “Grandpa’s here!” Sharla shouted.

“Digging potatoes, are you?” Grandpa called, as he walked over. “I was hoping to find someone to give me a hand this afternoon.”

“I will, Grandpa!” Mitchell said, jumping up.

“But you went last time,” protested Charlie. “It’s my turn!”

“It looks like you have some eager beavers here,” Grandpa said, looking at Papa.

“Depends on how hard the soil is,” Papa said with a wink.

Grandpa looked at the clods of clay in the potato patch. “Hard digging?” he asked. “Makes for good muscles, doesn’t it?”

“Too hard for me,” Charlie said. “I got a blister.”

“That’s a pity,” Grandpa said. “Looks like you have plenty more to dig. Wouldn’t a potato fork be easier?”

“That’s an idea!” Papa said, heading to the garden shed. “I forgot I had one.”

“Let me give it a try,” said Grandpa, taking the fork from Papa. After jabbing it deep into the ground, he pried it back and forth. When he pushed on the handle a giant clod lifted.

“Oh, you got some!” Sharla pulled out two potatoes.

Grandpa jabbed in the fork again. “Heavy soil, alright. Clay, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Papa said. “And hard enough to take the joy out of potato digging.”

“Oh, there’s ways to mend that. Till in a load of sand and rotted leaves this fall, and you’ll be on your way to making a real potato patch.” Then he grinned at the boys. “You aren’t beat by hard work, are you?”

Mitchell and Charlie looked at each other.

“We got lots of potatoes!” Sharla said. “See?”

“Only half a bucket,” muttered Mitchell. “It wasn’t worth growing them.”

“Hmm,” said Grandpa. “I’m looking for a willing boy who won’t give up when trouble comes. It ‘pears to me that I’ve come to the wrong place.”

“I can help!” Sharla offered. “I didn’t give up.”

“You didn’t dig,” said Charlie. “It was really, really hard!”

“Too hard,” added Mitchell.

“There is only one kind of soil that makes it too hard,” said Grandpa. “It is the hard pan of an unwilling heart.”

“Hard pan?” repeated Charlie.

“Ground that hasn’t been softened up by tilling is called hard pan,” Grandpa explained. “It can get so hard than nothing can grow in it.”

“Nothing good, that is,” Papa said with a nod. “I remember pulling thistles from some ground as hard as concrete!”

“Thistles, yes,” agreed Grandpa. “And hearts that haven’t been softened up by willingness and humility will just get harder and harder until all they can grow are complaints and problems!”

“I don’t like prickly problems,” said Sharla, with round eyes.

“Me neither,” Papa agreed, soberly. “Is that the kind of heart soil you boys want to have? Too hard with complaints and selfishness to be trusted to get a job done?” Papa’s face was shiny with sweat, and there was a tired look in his eyes.

Mitchell looked at a clod of clay and then over at his brother. Charlie was poking his toes in a crack in the ground. A crack where a prickly weed was growing. “I’m sorry for complaining,” Mitchell said quietly.

Grandpa shoved the fork in beside a potato hill. “How about giving this a good shaking? I expect there just might be a few potatoes to pry loose under this old plant.”

“I’ll try,” said Mitchell. With a jerk and shove the fork handle began to wiggle. Jerk, shove. Mitchell pulled with all his might, and finally the fork popped up with three potatoes on top.

“Not bad,” Grandpa said with a smile. “Be sure to keep away from the plant so you don’t poke any potatoes. When this row is finished, I just might try you at my house.”

“Can I, Papa?” asked Mitchell.

“I’ll work, too,” Charlie offered. He hurried to help Sharla pick up the potatoes.

Papa smiled at Grandpa. “Maybe I could take both,” Grandpa said. “I have a couple of fruit trees to plant. The digging might be a bit harder, because there are plenty of rocks at my house.”

The boys looked at each other. More digging?

“Maybe it will be a bit too hard,” Papa said with a wink. “I don’t know. Even a swim in the creek won’t help if it’s too hard.”

Mitchell plunged the fork in the ground, then looked at his brother. Charlie was grinning. “It won’t be too hard,” he said. “We’re willing to work.”