Dirt, It's What Poor People Do For Fun.

My childhood was an interesting one. It was normal in many ways including (lower) middle class status, 2 siblings, public school, neighborhood kids to play with, etc. But there were some exceptions that made my formative years separate from other kids in the area. Mainly, my dad and his ties to the Lone Star State.

I've always considered Texas to be a part of the South. However, having met people from the actual South, who disagree wholeheartedly, I seem to be mistaken. Texas, apparently, is its own entity, wholly unto itself and a state unlike any other. This is the place my dad grew up. He lived on a ranch of sorts, did a lot of hard labor as a kid, and understood well the meaning of work ethic and discipline. Then he moved to So-Cal with his mom.

Southern California is like Texas in only one way: it's different than any other place in the US. Cali in general kinda does its own thing and makes a heck of a lot of money doing it. My dad started a concrete construction business there when he was young and made a pretty good living for himself. There were ups and downs but, overall, he supported his family and enjoyed his line of work. But he never lost that country attitude.

He calls wrestling, wrastlin'.

He owned a tractor (one of those big, yellow ones) and taught me how to drive it when I was in Middle School.

He says things like "whatta say, kid?" (To this day I have no idea how to respond to that)

At any given time he owns anywhere from 2 to 9 "huntin' dogs" and takes them out a couple weekends a month to hunt for "coons" or bears or the occasional fox, mountain lion, bobcat. In fact, being a big fan of these huntin' trips as a youngin', I've had a rather large mountain lion run full speed towards me while attempting to escape my dad's pack of Walker Tree Hounds. Let's just say I'll never forget that day.

My father used chores to teach lessons. He once had me water four trees in our backyard. You may think that this sounds like a completely reasonable request and probably imagine me in a nice, cozy backyard with a hose and a few Jacarandas in full bloom. No. We had a couple acres of property so that our "backyard" was more like a giant field used to store flatbed trucks, construction equipment, the already mentioned John Deere, a pack of wild dogs, as well as a Motocross track for my brother’s dirt bikes. The trees were all the way in the back. Four of them, all about 20 feet from one another. While our hose was unusually long, it wasn’t quite long enough and only got within about 30 feet of the trees. So, I had to fill up a wheelbarrow with water. I should mention that this was a large, iron wheelbarrow with holes in the bottom from screws that had once been drilled into it. Anyway. I fill it up (takes about 15 minutes), wheel it over to a tree, trying very hard not to hit any rocks lest I should spill its contents and have to start over (oh yeah, this happened), and dump it into the base of the tree. Four times. This chore took me about an hour and a half. Three times a week.

The lesson? Hell if I know. When I was finally released of this torturous chore my dad took over the watering. First thing he did? Bought another hose to add to the end of the first one. Took him about 30 minutes total. Yup.

My dad rented a trencher so I could spend a weekend digging long trenches all across our backyard for a sprinkler system he would never install. We spent the next few years tripping a lot.

I can replace the tire on my car. I know when the oil needs to be changed and how to do it. When a radiator hose breaks or the fan belt snaps, I can diagnose the problem without lifting the hood.

Do I know how to put up drywall? Absolutely. Can I remove the stucco from your ceiling? Yup. Lay bricks? Sure. Shoot a shotgun and actually hit the thing I'm aiming for? You betcha.

So, all in all, it was pretty sweet having that kinda dad. I know how to do things, I have some ridiculous stories that still piss me off a little, and was able to escape a future full of cheerleading and fashion (if my mother had had her way and gotten to me before dad did). I wouldn't have it any other way.

The whole point of this was to talk about a dirt pile. I know that sounds odd cuz I went off on a huge tangent, possibly one I've already written about, but I wanted to mention that, despite our different childhoods, it does seem there is one pretty constant theme: a dirt pile.

I had one. You know you had one. And so did the kids next door. Mine was pretty big, I'm not gonna lie. Dirt is an ingredient in concrete after all, so we had a real sizeable one out back next to the four infamous trees...

We'd dig tunnels. Make mud pies. Attempt to create dirt castles. It was a real good time. Hours of fun. A child’s fascination with a large collection of nice, clean dirt just goes to show how far our imaginations can stretch. I still miss that old pile ‘a dirt.

So, this wasn't quite as cogent as I would have liked, however, you get the point. We all had interesting upbringings full of the stories that made us who we are today. But, amidst the big moves, the divorces, the lessons learned, the chores performed, the report cards hidden, the sibling rivalries, the awkward years, was one constant:

Dirt.

This isn't actually me but it might as well be - slap that stringy hair into a side ponytail, replace the horse on her sweatshirt with the name of my little-league softball team, and it'd be a spittin' image. Also, that's one good-lookin' pile of dirt. Respect.

-Age