Wrinkly Bits
A Blog by Gail Cushman
What is it about boys and dirt? My brothers, one older and one younger, enjoyed playing in dirt. In the 1950’s my older brother dug around looking for Indian arrowheads and old coins, and my younger brother favored yellow Tonka dump trucks and road graders and other toys while making sounds that sorta sounded like a truck. Those arrowheads and Tonka toys would be worth a fortune today, but that’s another story. I, on the other hand, became an expert at other things, like straightening nails for my father’s used nail collection or making rock borders for our iris garden. No dirt, but, remember, I was the girl.
My son and his friend’s favorite play place was the “Dirt Hill”, which was about a cubic yard of dirt tempting sitting near our driveway where they built roads and tunnels and all kinds of fun stuff. They had monster trucks and the Dirt Hill served as a marvelous babysitter. Those boys moved dirt for a whole summer. I’d ask, “Where’s your brother?” and the answer was always, “On the Dirt Hill, where else?”
One summer, I decided we were going to have a swimming pool. It was 20’ x 40’ and we had dirt to move. I was the dirt director, but we hired somebody to haul it away. The little boys thought they were in seventh heaven, but I was just waiting to swim a few laps.
Two of my grandsons, ages six and six, liked to fish in the local pond, but one day they found two shovels and began to dig. Suddenly I saw a rose bush fly across the yard. “What are you digging? Did you lose something? Don’t dig up my roses.”
“It’s okay, Grandma, we’ll be through in a little while. We are trying to find China, and Grandpa told us it was directly below us. We’re already down a foot, so it can’t be much farther,” one of the little darlings said, as another rose bush and a raspberry plant bit the dust. That was the same day they decided they needed a slug collection and did a scientific study to see which slug moved the fastest. I forget who won. It was the same day that one of the six-year-olds came running into the house saying, “Grandma, I haven’t had a hug today. Could I have one?” All rosebush digging was forgiven.
So, now, here I am once again watching dirt being moved. Last fall, we decided to add a shed for our boat. It’s a vintage boat, meaning old, but we want to protect it from the Montana cold for a few more years. We thought we should figure out a way to put it under a shelter. Where should we put it, we asked, and found the perfect spot, but we had to move a little dirt. Our neighbor showed up with a huge backhoe and began digging. Oh, boy. Cowboy rented a skid steer, he called it, from a local equipment renting company and he began moving one dirt hill to another. A week and some 200 tons of Montana dirt later, our front hill had a facelift. Did I forget to tell you about the rocks? That was my job, picking up rocks, of which we have a lot. We live near a caldera you might have heard of. It’s called Yellowstone, not the movie though, which they filmed that in Utah and Texas. But Cowboy figured I was a rock-picker extraordinaire, having gained skills in my Idaho pre-teenage years. I’ve got to learn to keep my mouth shut.
Anyway, a week ago, a concrete company poured some cement and now we have the foundation for a boat and a pickup shed. Two vehicles. It’ll be good, just what we want. Next week they are going to attach the walls and maybe the roof. Cowboy says we need electricity, for lights, water, and a drain, and God only knows what else. So, guess what: more digging. Poor Cody is not a happy camper.
