My own sandpit
Children used to choose their friends carefully. For a boy, that included finding a family that kept a treasure chest, filled with Dinky and Matchbox toys. Cars were good, and construction toys were even better. Coupled with an impromptu sandbox (or the dirt beside the back doorstep), we worked out our fantasies of roadbuilding. Imagine, then, the flashback that came for me, when I looked out into my back yard today and saw this view.
Somewhat overscale, perhaps, but then, so am I. The urge to go and make a mess is intense. Probably see me thrown in jail, as well, so I’m resisting. But at least the memory is pure.
You see, the real moving of dirt started today. All day long, a low frequency rumble. Every once in a while, the yellow flash of the bulldozer criss-crossing in front of the living room window. The driveway has already taken on a different look: wider, flatter, better. Roll the heavy stuff back and forth, until the base is good and compact. We’ll get gravel, later in the process.
At one point, I had to move the car. Down into the dirt, and out the back way onto the agricultural lane. I’ll probably never have a chance to do that, again. Right now, the driveway looks bare, but compared to even yesterday, I’m impressed. The large, fallen tree that defined one edge is now gone (where, I wonder?) The parking pad is slowly growing, and right now I don’t mind the inconvenience of parking the car elsewhere. After all, it’s for the best of reasons.
