Dirt

In the heat of an Oklahoma summer, as a child, I would squat with my knees under my chin and sift the fine dirt in the ruts in front of our garage. My fingers delighted in the silky feel of the dust created by rain and sun and the tires on my mother’s green Chevy. I had seldom felt the smoothness of real satin, but I knew what it should feel like. I felt the satin of the Earth, a gift of Nature, not a store-bought version encumbered with status and ego.

This dirt marked the seasons for me. First, spring rains created puddles of soupy mud. Then, as the mud dried in the summer sun, it would turn into puzzle pieces with curled edges, each piece shrinking away from its neighbor. These pieces could be lifted and crumbled through the fingers, transforming their hard brittleness into silky dust. This process was speeded up on the rare occasions when my mother would park her car in the garage. In an instant the tires would pulverize the crusty dirt into a tiny sensuous playground for my fingers.

That memory of summer has stayed with me throughout my life, and I still love to play in the dirt.