Digging The Dirt.

To a small boy there is nothing like a big pile of dirt. When at a tender age, the family moved to a State House, there was a big pile of topsoil where the lawn was to be. There was also a pile of metal, builders mix, to be used for making concrete and pouring the paths and front steps. The piles became mountains and quarries. Toy trucks and bulldozers put in long days, carving tunnels, roads, and towns. The dog used to piss me off by digging holes in my carefully laid out railway marshalling yards. Then one fateful day the lawn was laid, no more pile of dirt. The only bonus was the parental encouragement to keep the birds off, which I did, with a catapault. But there is something eminently satisfying, after having a gazillion jobs, to be back playing with piles of dirt, and real trucks and bulldozers.