The Cross to Remember

When I was older than my younger brother in early life, we would dig holes. Anywhere, everywhere.

Early in the morning we would rise and quickly make our one eyed sandwiches or luftwaffes and head off to work. I approached this work like a job superintendent, making sure of location, and then depth and width, prescribing breaks at regular intervals, always training my team to exceed the low expectations of their young bodies that waited for age to teach them important lessons in life. I was patient but assumed my work seriously. At breakfast I would encourage reviewing talk to prepare them for the sometimes daunting day ahead. During the hard labor there were no gripes, only an occasional, "How much deeper?" or "When is the next break?" And I would considerately but firmly reply, "We are searching for hard pan. I am watching the clock. Do not lose concentration!"

My brother Charlie learned much in those days. He was like Psyche sorting the seeds but without help from the ants. There was no confusing knowledge of how many holes we had left to dig and whether or not there was any hard pan to hit, or what was hard pan? He had a the beginner's mind. Always wondering if a root or stone would inhibit his shoveling and demand a different approach or even more concentration. The key to his success was to love his work unconditionally. Not blaming me or the shovel or root or even the earth for lack of progress. He would simply dig with all his might.

One night I woke up from a bout of lucid snoring and found his covers pulled back and the bed empty. I wondered, was he in the kitchen for a snack, or had he crept into Mom and Dad's bed. Then I heard a sound. I followed the scraping to the back porch. Outside I saw Charlie in the hole working in his pj's. During our afternoon session he had only made it to the depth of his knees but now I could barely see his ribs. I thought, "What dedication. What a sense of determination." I stared at him for quite a while and then went back to bed.

On occasion we would stumble into an old outhouse hole and find cans and bottles. One small bottle I prized was made of triangular shaped blue glass. It was about three and a half inches tall with an owl on it. Later I took it to my youth group leader and he told me that it was an ant poison bottle and it laid on its side to encourage entrants.

The real occasion to dig for me was to find the clay that laid just on top of hard pan. There were precious rocks that filtered down to rest mixed up with this clay. I once strained the clay and made an ashtray in the shape of a mouth and my older brother fired it in his kiln. We were all surprised when it didn't explode.

Before me today I see four rocks and one marble. I see them in my pocket. I see them with the memories of time through the touch of my calloused hands. One represents my heart, one my liver. There is a black stone and a white marble to remind me of night and day. The fifth stone is a layered rock someone told me was whale bone. I carry that because I polished it myself in my rock tumbler.

These items take on different meaning at different times but they all well up at first touch the jealousy of digging with Charlie.



2002



© Donald Grube, 2010