This morning I walked by a house up the street where there is heavy duty construction going on (I here note that there is ALWAYS construction of some sort going on in our neighborhood, when it comes to their houses people can never leave well enough alone). I noted that there was some serious digging, the kind done by a machine, not a shovel. Thus there was a huge pile of dirt and a deep, long ditch.
Cool.
Ever since I was a wee lad (and dinosaurs roamed the Earth) I’ve had a fascination with holes dug in the ground and the earth thus removed. I used to dig holes in our backyard, at least once this was much to my father’s chagrin.
Why is that? Was I hoping to uncover buried treasure? Dinosaur bones? Evidence of Native American tribes? The answers to these three questions are: yes, yes and yes.
When I was staying for a short time at my brother’s house in the early Eighties, and was aimless, scared, lost, confused, anxious and depressed (that was a helluva combo) I didn’t actually dig in his yard but did manage to unearth some artifacts just the same. They included utensils and housewares all from the time a Japanese-American family owned the house and were driven off their property to internment camps courtesy of racist government. So that was interesting.
In fact it’s interesting how archeologists will uncover remains from a particular civilization or time period from one layer of earth and examples from another era a layer or two below.
But I also think I like dirt. (Shouldn’t I know?) Okay, I like dirt. Why? There’s something natural about digging into the ground, being one with the soil as so many of us are after death. The soil is comforting. Why else would so many people love gardening?
I’ve hardly done any gardening in my life but when I have it’s felt good. One with the soil and making things grow. That’s power. You plant a seed, water it, tend to it, something grows. You’re like a god.
When I was young I liked to throw dirt clods. They would be solid enough to throw but then would break up into little pieces upon impact. That was cool. I used to hit them with my baseball bat. That never really worked out. The clod would immediately break into a zillion pieces many of which would fly back in my face. I still did it though. I here note that boys can be pretty dumb.
I like grass and meadows and sports fields. I loved playing soccer in part because you are — again — one with the earth. Well, to a certain degree, anyway. You, the ball, the pitch, teammates and opponents. It was best when the field was damp. Wet can be messy and make the ball move to fast, but damp was good. Actually, muddy was kind of cool too. Never for a game, but for practice and just fooling around. A bit of a puddle was nice. Splash! I had a coach who noted that when we were practicing shots or passing the ball I would always find a spot was there was near mud or a puddle. Controlling and shooting the ball in such spots tested your skills. But it was also fun. Boys stuff, I suppose.
I remember one year we won a championship game played in a driving rain storm. It poured throughout the entire match. The kind of rain you have trouble seeing through. It was cool with me.
I didn’t mind playing in cold or heat either. If it was cold playing would warm you up. If it was hot you just sweated a lot — big deal when you’re young. Fog was great to play in, gave a sense of atmosphere. But wind. Fuck that.Wind would mess you up. You try a cross and the wind blows the ball past your target or knocks it right down. Messes with shots and clearances too. It could make you look like an idiot. You slam a well hit shot toward goal and the wind carries it well wide or blows it down making it look like a weak effort. No wind for me.
Good God I loved playing. I also liked getting dirty. What is it about getting dirty, muddy even, that was so appealing?
One with the soil.
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