A Boy and His Dirt

This is the first post by our new contributor Colin McK! This post is the first in a series...

Test scores affirm he's a
below average son, but an
excellent mudder...

Fact:

Everyone has something weird about them.

Case in point:

My Uncle Wurt on my dad's side of the family used to juggle his false teeth. Usually with an apple.

One might say everyone's got a funny uncle or aunt or stupid cousin or whathaveyou. What does that prove? Simple.

Everyone knows someone like that, who in turn knows others, and those people still others, ad infinitum. Uncle Wurt wasn't the only acquaintance or family member I knew who was weird, but for them-- knowing me-- well, I was the one most thought the weirdest.

It all started in the summer of 1983.

I spent a lot of time in the back yard during the day. It was fenced in and overgrown with trees, bushes and flowers. I couldn’t see the neighbors and they couldn’t see me. It was like I was cut off from the rest of the world. I knew that wasn’t true, but it was fun to pretend. Until I got bored being all by myself and decided I needed some friends.

For most kids my age, friends meant classmates, church buddies, maybe even kids from the neighborhood. In my case, friends meant I needed a shovel. I rummaged through the garage until I came up with one better suited for gardening or potting plants than my own task, but it would have to do. The big shovels Dad kept locked up and he was at work. Mom wouldn’t be much help, either, as having to ask anything other than if I could leave the premises was a big, fat no. Mom had shows, and shows required concentration on show stuff. Show stuff took up so much time and energy there wasn’t much left for anything else. In a way, Mom was like my gigantic desk top computer: one task at a time.

Shovel in hand, I found a good spot behind the shed and set to work. As a rule, I didn’t much care to get my hands dirty with anything but dirt. Like I said: weird. Before long I found several thin roots and a few as big around as my fingers, but I just dug around those. They weren’t what I wanted.

There was a compost heap nearby Mom ringed with bricks and that was where I normally found my friends. I’d overturned them all the previous day and, without a plan, let them escape. Most of them were little and not worth my time, though a couple seemed good enough. I got yelled at for not putting the bricks back the way I found them so I made sure that was the first thing I did that morning. Mom was known to spot check me when I played outside to make sure I wasn’t up to no good. I figured digging up the back yard might fall into that description, but I was too far into my work to turn back.

The first one came out in a chunk of sod and I held it up while it popped back into its hole like a gopher. Then in dawned on me I needed something to put them in. I dropped everything and ran back to the garage for a basket or maybe an old jar. Dad kept old nails, screws and other odds and ends in a mason jar next to the broom, but that was off limits. Undeterred, I ran back to my spot, falling to my knees to stop. I tore the dirt chunk apart and held aloft my prize:

A fat, juicy worm.

I continued my love affair for the next half hour, plucking several more from the ground and jamming them one after another into my pants pockets. Once I could feel them wriggling around against my legs, I knew I had enough, and began the painstaking process of funneling their former homes in after them. I had a fifth fistful of dirt when it happened.

“Hey, kid.”

My head whipped around. Two kids stood near the fence at the end of the yard, peering over. One was tall and chubby, with curly red hair. The other was short, skinny. His face looked like a rat. I knew them from the neighborhood, but not their names. It didn’t matter. They were trouble.

“Choo puttin in your pants, pal?”

I dropped the handful of dirt.

“Nothin.”

Firetop snorted.

“Don’t look like nothin to me.”

Ratface grinned half a mouthful of teeth.

“You playin witchoself back here?”

I felt the worms moving around against my legs and the blood drained from my face. I thrust my hands into my pockets, tried to make them stop.

“N-no.”

Firetop giggled, but Ratface wasn’t convinced.

“BULLPUCKY. Lemme see them hands.”

I knew it wasn’t the time for heroics. I’d seen enough cop dramas to know that. Just do what they say and it will all be over. All they wanted was to see my hands. So I yanked them out and held them in front of me like kids my age waved hello.

Firetop and Ratface had eyes like full moons.

“GET AWAY GROSS KID.”

And they ran to go tell their parents.

My name was Deke.

But everyone called me Dirtball.