Our Point of View

Planting Charlie

An Uncle’s Introduction To The Swamp at McMillan Creek By Mark Jicha
July 2002

Between pharmaceuticals, television, computers and cell phones, we’ve purged most of what we know about nature from the human condition, the same way we’ve used concrete and culverts to force the land and water to bend to our ways; follow the astronauts for the view from space, and it’s no wonder our lovely little planet looks like a disease-ravaged rock where man has been most prolific.

But even under the most abject abuse, there is a pagan purity about dirt, a prehistoric premonition that transcends our feeble attempts to comprehend existence and makes the entire effort so much more wholesome. And real.

Even in the most bleak landscape, one can usually find some greens and gold.

That’s why my little piece of swamp in the Altamaha River basin is so special. Those small patchwork fields, now planted in millet and sorghum, have become my favored haunts, and hiking the creek bottom is like a journey back in time. It’s not hard to be humble when bald cypress tower into the heavens and block out the midday sun.

When my young nephew, Charlie, finally came for an extended visit, I decided to find out about his growth rings in the deep woods that tributary toward Southeast Georgia’s greatest river swamp. Penetrating the Penholloway Creek is an experience, and watching him come alive with wonder was a real treat, indeed. His curiosity was an invigorating substance; and finding a kindred experience in those bottoms verified the best of what we call family.

If you want to know about the heavens, look closely at earth. If you want to look closely at a person, put him in an unfamiliar setting. That was my tactic when I rolled out the John Deere and attempted to pass along my humble efforts at agriculture. Charlie, my sister’s only child and namesake of our long-departed dad, took to the Swamp like a retriever to water.

Charlie tooled around those acres I call “The Swamp,” a swatch of bottom which had been cut clear and left to seed. The briars are impenetrable in places, but a series of tiny clearings are now showing serious signs of life: quail & dove, bluebirds and warblers, turkey, bobcat, wild hog and no shortage of whitetail deer.

I’m raising crops and planting trees, and I tell everyone I have a 20-Year Plan; I also expect to be about fifty years behind schedule when my first deadline arrives. Even so, I’m using seeds, saplings and sweat to paint this landscape, and Charlie plugged right into the dream. He plowed right into the chores involved in planting two acres in prosso millet. Whether steering the big harrows behind the JD 2755 or running the rows with the hand planter, Charlie could see the landscape plan coming together. Being a part of that process seemed to be as important to him as it was gratifying to me.

Family is a funny concept - no one can torment us like our kinfolk, but we remain more complete when we share our struggles; and when an older and somewhat addled uncle can connect with his young nephew, the world seems like a better place, one where greens and golds abound.