Every morning at this time of year I go outside and dig in the dirt for my breakfast. This isn’t because we’re destitute. It’s because I have this scandalous craving for radishes.

As with many things, fresher is always better. And it’s impossible to be any fresher than eating food moments after it’s plucked from the earth.

I wash my radishes first, of course. I’m not a total barbarian, at least not anymore. When I was a kid, a fresh radish or a green onion would find its way into my mouth after the dirt was removed with a cursory swipe on the leg of my jeans. Jeans that probably sported a thick layer of grit and grime, along with scattered spatters of dairy cow poop.

What’s wrong with sharing a few germs with the environment and our animal friends?

Back then, our family kept a garden out of necessity. Ours was basically a subsistence farm, meaning that we could barely afford life’s basics. If you opened a dictionary and looked up the phrase “poor as a church mouse,” its accompanying photo would be of my seven siblings and me when we were youngsters.

Nowadays, my wife and I can afford to fill the trunk of our car with supermarket radishes — not a crazy idea, in my opinion — but I prefer the radishes that came directly from our garden. Maybe the soil bacteria have taken control of my brain and are constantly urging, “Eat more dirt! Help a few trillion of our brethren escape from this muddy dungeon and colonize the planet!”

This all comes to mind as I slog through the refurbishment of my parents’ farmhouse. The house is 130 years old, give or take a decade or so. Who counts birthdays anymore when you’ve had that many?

As you might expect, there are very few things in the house that are level or plumb or square. I’m less than half as old and often feel like that.

I was about 6 years old and the house was about 80 when it finally got indoor plumbing. This instilled in me a deep and lifelong appreciation for running water. I still think it’s a minor miracle that you can flip a lever and get all the hot H2O that you want.

Various repairs have been done to the house over the decades. Many of the repairs were carried out by our neighbor Martin Rud, a self-taught carpenter and a shining example of a Norwegian bachelor farmer.

For instance, Martin once shared with me that you needn’t wash the entirety of the shirt that you wear with your Sunday suit. Scrubbing just its collar is plenty good as that’s the only area that develops any obvious dinginess.

Martin was a faithful and upstanding Lutheran who didn’t believe in that invisible force called B.O. He smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes and had a fearsome case of noxious coffee breath. He was a wondrous role model for an impressionable young lad.

I often helped Martin with the repairs in my parents’ house. I thus obtained what few carpentry skills I possess from an odiferous, self-taught carpenter. It was a magnificent experience for a boy who was navigating his formative years.

One summer, Martin and I installed sheetrock on the west wall of my parents’ bedroom. The house had settled and shifted; its walls had more wrinkles than an elderly elephant. But Martin was bent on achieving perfection, an impossible feat when you’re dealing with a universe of imperfections.

Martin instructed me to position a hunk of sheetrock at a certain spot. His frustration level soared as he strove mightily to make the sheetrock fit into the cock-eyed corner. The stubby Lucky Strike dangling from his lower lip raining ash and with his coffee breath blasting at full power, Martin muttered to no one in particular, “Cats!”

It took a moment for me to realize that Martin wasn’t talking about felines. His profound vexation made him want to curse, which was something that he wanted to avoid in the presence of a young and impressionable farm boy.

I would have been OK with it if he had cut loose; I was eager to expand my catalogue of earthy expressions. But alas. Martin’s aversion for using strong language in front of me was so strong that I had to settle for imagining that some long-ago cat had leaped onto a carpenter’s back, causing that corner to be wonky.

I recalled these things as I painted the bedroom’s west wall. Imperfections inevitably arose and I muttered, “Cats!”

Then I realized that I was just getting hangry, so I took a break and enjoyed a radish snack.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy,” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.