Dirt-Stained Hands, Holy Work: Scrubbing Off PA Red Clay and Keeping the Soul Intact

The Gospel According to Dirt

Let’s not let kids around mowers or my ashy, dirty legs.

There’s a certain type of red that stains deeper than lipstain, deeper than red wine, and sometimes, I swear, deeper than sin. It’s Pennsylvania red clay—and when you farm in it, you don’t just get dirty, you become dirty. Not metaphorically. Physically. Spiritually. Permanently.

My hands are almost always stained now. No no. They are ALWAYS stained now—red at the fingertips, caked in the creases. My feet? I could sand a table with my heels. But if you ask me, there’s something sacred about it. Dirt-stained hands are evidence of time well spent. Therapy earned. Life wrestled with and planted back into the ground. It’s not clean work, but it’s holy. I don’t think dirty feet say much more than “yuck”, “ew” or “oh my”.

The World Has Noticed

My mother, Susan, recently looked at my hands and with the tone only a medical-mother can muster, asked, “OK. Tell me what happened to your hand?” Then, without missing a beat (or 24 hours), she dropped off actual sterile surgical scrub kits from her office. Surgical. Scrub. Kits. Apparently I’ve crossed into the “emergency decontamination” zone. If you know Susan, you know. We used to joke that our house reorganized while she wasn’t even home.

Even my students have taken notice. In the middle of an online tutoring session, one politely raised his virtual hand to say, “Ms. Curtis, um… why do your hands look red.” Thank you, child. They are, in fact, red. Because Ms. Curtis was elbow-deep in sunflower seedlings ten minutes before class. Because Ms. Curtis is a flower farmer and your math teacher. Because this is what dual-purpose living looks like.

Let’s not forget my birthday date with my sons—our annual “go out and eat like feral kings” tradition. I took them straight from the field, still wearing flip flops, red clay dusted between my toes like I’d dipped them in a vat of terra cotta matte paint. We walked into public like we were totally normal. Because we are. (We are not. But we are harmless.)

I Don’t Do Prevention. Come At Me.

I know there are people who slather on barrier creams and wear gloves and actually rinse off before appearing in public. Bless them. I am not one of them. Preventative measures? Never heard of her. I’ve tried. I own gloves. They are scattered about because sometimes stuff is picky and I don’t like picky stuff. They’re in wheelbarrows, in sheds, and in buckets, stiff and judgmental from disuse. Probably not a set. 2 rights, 1 left, different textures and colors. It’s fine.

Dirt is my natural state now. It’s not just on me; it’s in me. It’s under my nails and etched into my cuticles and sometimes mysteriously behind my ears. On my phone screen, in my phone speaker, in all of my shoes, on all of my shoes. It’s a lifestyle. If you’re looking for pristine, you’re in the wrong field—literally.

Fine. Here’s How I Plan to Get Clean (Eventually)

When the time does come to return to the world of humans, I do have a few tricks up my dirt-encrusted sleeve:

Hands:

• Mechanic’s soap or gritty orange pumice scrub—think “removes grease from engines” level strong. I use Dawn Dish Soap most often. If it’s good enough for de-oilslicking birds, my hands should improve.

• DIY sugar scrub with coconut oil, sugar, and lemon if I want to pretend I’m at a spa instead of a crime scene cleanup. This is just rude. I am not doing this. I mean, I’ll try it if someone provides it. I don’t have “sugar scrub money”. Those are food items.

• A good fingernail brush is essential. I keep one at every sink. That doesn’t mean I use them regularly, but they’re there. Symbolic effort. Ok. Half truth. I do have and use a fingernail brush. It is magic. I also have used old toothbrushes almost daily for my fingernail scrubbing. I mean, this is kind of the Dawn dishsoap theory. We use old toothbrushes to clean other things, so…

Feet:

• A foot soak of Epsom salt, warm water, and apple cider vinegar will humble even the most stubborn clay. Remove the apple cider vinegar and my sore muscles are very pro-Epsom salt. Also affordable.

• Mr. Pumice bar—the purple one that looks like it was designed by Crayola and feels like redemption. This is a dream item. (Maybe I need an Amazon Wishlist?) Is this why people live with a partner? I have to purchase & employ said “Mr. Pumice bar”. This sounds like a scam.

• Tea tree or peppermint oil makes me smell less like mulch and more like a functioning adult. Ummm…this makes me think like I’ll smell like an adult, but an adult hippy. Don’t all essential oils smell like patchouli? I need to research this. In the meantime, my feet are dirty. Is there a section on OnlyFans for that? I have questions. I don’t really want the answers though.

Extra Credit: (Oh! I like gold stars!)

• When I actually do glove up (rare), nitrile gloves beat garden gloves every time. No cap. (I learned that a decade ago and it is finally kind of funny to use it. Ha!) Susan taught me the wise ways of the nitrile glove, more stylishly provided in black now and not that terrible purple. She did not teach me “no cap”.

• And let’s not forget that I do not, unless the weather is below 0 or I am for some very strange reason visiting someone’s shoeless home in Winter, believe in socks. My feet do not approve. They make my feet hurt in shoes, they feel wrong and they make my entire being feel like it is boiling. Something happened to me with socks and it is officially blocked from memory. No socks. If I did wear them out in the field. I would throw them in the trash. There is just no way to recover any cotton clothing from the mud stains.

Stained but Sanctified

At the end of the day, I wash up—not to erase the dirt, but to honor the work it came from. I clean off what I can and live with what lingers. Because every red-tinged finger and dusty heel is a record of love, labor, and life in motion.

Some folks wear rings to show commitment. I wear a dirt line where my boots end. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Make it stand out

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.