Dirt in my Nails

My favorite digging hole was on the East side of my grandparents house. Situated between their screened-in porch and a willow tree, it was almost always shady. I didn’t know it until recently, but my grandfather used to fill up a watering can each day and pour it over my digging spot to keep the dirt soft. That explains why the dirt cut like butter.

I never built anything, more just moved dirt around and played with my construction trucks. I used to pretend that I was operating a construction site. I made beeping noises as I backed my dump truck across the rocky terrain toward the hole that I was working on that day. I scooped dirt into the bed of the dump truck with my bare hands, and pushed the truck back across the bumpy ground. I had dirt under my fingernails for most of my adolescence, despite my mom’s attempt to clean my hands each day.

My grandmother sipped an ice tea as she watched me play. Sometimes she would join in as well and we would collaborate on a construction project.

When the sun began to set, she signaled that it was time to wrap things up. I would direct my trucks back to the hole and begin the refilling process. This took another ten minutes at least, as I had to make noises for each truck as it maneuvered my work site. I tamped down the ground after I had refilled my holes. My grandparents always told me to leave things as I found them. Looking back, my time digging in their side yard yielded an important life lesson, and hours of enjoyment. Eventually I grew out of my digging phase though I always walk over and admire the East side of my grandparents house every time I stop by.