Many Hands Make Light Work
A story of neighbors, teamwork, and the joy of shared work
There are potatoes under there somewhere, I thought as I stared at my once-beautiful garden, now overtaken by weeds. I wondered if God made any weeds without thorns, because I seemed to have every variety He ever designed. My potato patch looked more like a chest-high barricade of barbed wire than a garden.
This year, my wife and I went all out, hoping to stock our root cellar. Somewhere beneath that green tangle lay 600 linear feet of potatoes. Futilely, I tried pulling weeds with my gloved hands, but the thorns pierced straight through the leather.
So, I pulled out my phone and texted Mr. Campbell:
“Would you have time this next week to come brush hog some weeds for me?”
Mr. Campbell only hears from me a few times a year, whenever I need a tractor. He tills my garden in the spring, mows thistles in my pasture, and moves heavy things when my equipment can’t. If my zero-turn mower can’t handle it, I call him.
Over a decade ago, when I bought this place, I wrestled with whether to buy a tractor. But tractors need a barn, and repairs can be costly. I figured it was cheaper over time to hire a tractor when needed than to own one.
A few days later, Mr. Campbell pulled into the driveway. Within ten minutes, the potato patch was cleared to the dirt. My wallet was $100 lighter, but my back and hands were grateful.
Expecting a bountiful harvest, I cleaned out the root cellar and prepared some plastic crates. Later that evening at our church small group, I pitched the idea:
“Does anyone need potatoes? Why don’t we have an evening of potato digging, followed by supper around the campfire?”
We set a time: next Friday at 5.
When the day came, I rolled out my 1940s David Bradley two-wheel tractor and hooked up the potato plow. It couldn’t brush hog a field, but it could unearth potatoes. Driving down the first row, I watched eagerly as spuds popped out of the ground one after another. The soil was hard from lack of rain, so some would need to be found by hand.
Kneeling in the dirt, I clawed through the rows, dragging a five-gallon bucket behind me. Sweat dripped from my nose into the dusty soil. Just then I heard, “Good evening!”
It was Jason and his wife Grace from small group. “I brought extra gloves—want a pair?” they asked, joining the work. Soon Steve arrived with his three children. My wife Beth set out Country Time lemonade on a fold-out table by the campfire before joining us.
Another row plowed, and a small white pickup pulled in, followed by a Ford Bronco. Out stepped Bob and Joel. Now we were rolling. Some dug, some hauled, some plowed. Buckets and crates filled quickly. We piled them into my little dump trailer and wagons, carting load after load into the cellar.
“Pizza’s here! Come and get it!” My brother Jo had just returned from Italian Touch with supper. We circled up while Jason thanked God for food and friendship. My brother’s dog, Peaches, romped around with our farm mutts, chasing pizza crusts tossed their way as we sipped lemonade.
As the sun set, we finished the last rows, filling the cellar. “I reckon we dug 800, maybe 1000 pounds!” Joel said, wiping his brow. The damaged potatoes we set aside for mashed potatoes later in the week.
Before heading home, everyone fetched boxes, totes, and paper bags from their cars. Bob took 10 pounds, Steven 50, Jason and Grace 25. I reminded them, “You know where to get more. What’s mine is yours—thank you so much for helping.”
If you’ve ever read the writings of Wendell Berry, you’ve read of the old traditions of neighbors helping one another—making hay, putting up tobacco, or building barns. Not everyone owned a tractor, but everyone was part of a greater family of friends, neighbors, and parishioners. They worked together. They ate together. They carried one another’s burdens.
As much as I love cultivating vegetables, it is even more rewarding to cultivate friendships within my local community.
Drew Alexander – September 22, 2025
