Shoveling dirt

Guess I’ll lie on the floor awhile.

I have just finished shoveling 16 fence holes worth of dirt into the holes the dogs have dug. After about the fourth one, you start to sweat, your back starts to ache and then it begins to spasm. You guzzle cold water but never need to go to the bathroom. About the 10th hole, you realize the reason the wheelbarrow pushes so hard is that it has a flat tire—and you have no idea how to fix it. You daydream about a handsome man dropping by and insisting that you hand him the shovel, but no one comes.

You shovel and you shovel and you shovel. You take breaks, sip water, lie on the deck trying to straighten out your back. You put on your dead mother’s hat to protect your already sunburned face. You shovel until the dirt is spread everywhere. You learn that mud is heavier than dry dirt but stays on the shovel better. By the the last pile of dirt, you have fallen into a rhythm. Fill the shovel, walk it over, dump it. Stop thinking, feel the rhythm. It must be how men who do this all day keep at it. Their muscles develop as mine have not. I will be very sore tomorrow.

It’s late, you hurt, but it’s done. You know the dogs will scatter some of the dirt around again, but you hope enough is left that when the fence people come tomorrow, they’ll see it and say, “Wow, you did all that by yourself?”

I probably should have called someone to help, but it’s done now. I go out to the far end of the yard, remove my mud-caked snow boots, my woolly gray socks and Mom’s hat, and stretch out under the Sitka spruce. I feel the grass and pine needles tickling my back through my tee shirt. Looking straight up through the branches at the blue sky, I can see red blossoms where the sun hits. I admire the rough bark of this tree, so old, so strong, a wonderful home for birds and squirrels. I remember lying on the grass at my childhood home on Fenley Avenue and think this is now as much my home as that is. I have earned possession of it by my hard work.

The wind chimes tinkle in E minor. A squirrel chirps. A hummingbird buzzes by. A Monarch butterfly glides past. They don’t care if there are holes in the lawn, but I am proud of my work. I hope the rain and seed will bring out the grass and make it lush again.

I finally stand and walk barefoot across the lawn. The grass feels good on my feet, cool, soft, sap-full. I feel the warm wood of the deck, the cold roughness of the sidewalk, the colder smoothness of the concrete laundry room floor and then the nubbiness of the carpet that massages my toes.

Finally, after so much winter, I am warm.

Advertisements

Author: Sue Fagalde Lick

writer/musician California native, Oregon resident Author of Freelancing for Newspapers, Shoes Full of Sand, Azorean Dreams, Stories Grandma Never Told, and Childless by Marriage. I have published hundreds of articles, plus essays, fiction and poetry. I teach writing workshops and offer individual editing and mentoring. I'm also pretty good at singing and playing guitar and piano.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s