Insert Proust Reference Here

Today I had my own little temps perdu* moment. I was sifting through a pile of fill in my backyard, removing large chunks of asphalt, which I then put in a dumpster. I know, I have the most glamorous weekends.

Anyway, since no one else was around, I found the most convenient way to do this was to sit down. At first, I was sitting on the ground, but as I got further into the pile, I ended up sitting on a big pile of dirt.

Somehow, I found it way too satisfying. I found myself humming and pawing through the dirt and saying things like "Lookit you, spider! You're a big one! You've got big eyes! Okay, you go over here," and so on.

Oh yes. My own little flashback was not brought on by a cookie and tea, but by sitting on a dirt pile.

Although I will undoubtedly betray my redneck roots by telling you this, I spent an inordinate amount of time playing on dirt piles as a kid. Not in the dirt, mind you, but on large piles of it.

I lived out in the mountains until I was in second grade. During that time, there was always a very large pile of dirt somewhere. It would be too tedious to explain why there were piles of dirt everywhere - just take my word for it.

I know. What can possibly be so fun about a pile of dirt? At the time, they were practically the center of my outdoor recreation universe. Now, trying to describe the vast array of activities that I did on the dirt, it sounds like the most boring idea in the world, even for an only child with an overactive imagination.

One exciting thing I did, though, is when my cousins** were around, and if it was very dry, we would slide down the sandier slopes on our butts, kind of like sledding, only with no snow and no sled. (This should be in the White Trash Olympics). That worked until I accidentally rolled over mid-slide and my shirt slid up and scraped the hell out of my entire front. Ow. I was maybe four when that happened.

The point is, even though it is the most boring and pathetic sounding thing in the world, I had a great time on dirt piles as a kid, even by myself.

Luckily, it is too late for anyone to call child protective services.

* Aren't I a pretentious bastard? I didn't even read the book!

** These particular cousins' names are: Lester, Adam, Seth, and Sam. Yes, I am related to a guy named Lester. Two, if you count his dad. He is my Uncle. Uncle Lester. Yup. Sometimes, I would feed the pigs and goats at his farm, or get chased by an angry goose. Yup. See, I wasn't kidding about the redneck thing. You thought I was exaggerating, didn't you? You wish.