Summer, 1953 (6 years old)-- I spent hours playing in the bare patch of backyard that was officially my "sandbox". Oh, the things that came out of that sandbox, both good and bad. I would add leaves, twigs, water and stones to handfuls of dirt, and create culinary delights. Once, I threatened a kid down the street with a poisoned mud pie that I'd leave on her front doorstep. On one of my digs, I discovered a finely chiseled Indian arrowhead. I imagined a bronzed Narragansett Indian brave silently stalking a deer in my backyard. Another time, my brother Charlie and I decided we would dig a hole that would be so deep it would reach the children in China. We worked many, many hours, til we could fit inside that hole. While I was crouching in the bottom, digging out more dirt, my brother swung a hoe from above, and it caught me right on top of my skull, resulting in a trip to the emergency room, a couple of stitches, and a spot of my scalp where the hair doesn't grow. We never did reach China, but I never did give up my fascination with playing in the dirt.Just this morning, after the retired hubby and I finished our exercise in the park, I told him to go inside, ice the knees,and wait for me to fix breakfast because I'd be outside just a few minutes watering my tomato plants. The lure of the sandbox proved to be too much. An hour later, there I was, tomatoes plants unwatered, (hubby asking, "What are you doing??!!") and me playing in the dirt. Since I'm too big to make mud pies and such, I call it "weeding". The soil was so nice, softened up by recent rains. I attacked a weedy patch of lawn, freeing the runners of San Augustine grass from the choking weeds. There's something calming, soothing, and liberating about digging in the dirt ...... can hardly wait to put in my fall garden.
