#digging ditches

Melting snow was causing the driveway and barnyard to flood. I spent most of the day digging ditches. Chopping through the ice with an ax, then chipping away at the frozen ground with a shovel. At least it was a nice day to be working outside. But my back is definitely not appreciating my efforts tonight.

Well, I’m digging in a completely different area today, about 2-3 feet out of alignment with where the pipe looked like it was running and *CRACK!* *bubble bubble* Turns out it curved somewhere in there and ran right where I was digging.

So, I quit for the day and will be waiting on him to fix it again… It’s your house. You’re supposed to tell me where these things are 😑

Update (10/6/2016): Turns out it split it length wise a little bit too, so he’s going to have to find a longer patch pipe thing. Despite it not being my fault, I still felt bad about it, and I told him I would fix it for free (he buys parts but not pay me for time), but he said he would get it.

I mean, yeah, my time is worth more to me, but I’m not doing anything else with it, and I kind of enjoy working with PVC and haven’t had the chance in a while, haha. Either way, waiting until Friday or Saturday, depending on time and weather, to finish it up.

Day Four: Well I’m back on track.  This is also my third devotion of the day.  But I’m back on track. That is the important thing.  So.  Here we go.  Pray I don’t fail again.

Digging Ditches

Colossians 3:17 NIV Whatever you do, whether in word or deed,…

  I fantasize about digging ditches.

  I picture calling my boss on the phone

To tell him I’m quitting

And his shocked reaction when I explain why.

  I would trade in my non-descript sedan

For a beat-up Chevy truck, circa 1987.

I can see the shovel sitting in the back.

It has a long wooden body that

Will give me splinters if I

Don’t wear work gloves.

  On the truck’s front bench seat,

There’s a plastic red canteen

Filled with red Kool-Aid and ice.

I can hear the ice cubes knocking

Against the sides as I drive down

Bumpy dirt roads, unpaved and dry,

The dust rising up in clouds

All around my red truck, heavy-duty

Tires grinding into the red earth.

  I remember this place.

The surroundings are familiar,

And I realize I’ve returned

To the land where I grew up.

Not much has changed in the

Time that I’ve been gone.

Same mountains, same trees,

Just a little bit older.

  At last, I’ve reached the end

And I pull over to the side,

Parking against a field of

Yellow-flowered weeds and foxtails.

  The driver’s side door groans as it opens;

Its hinges have grown cranky and rusted.

The sound of it slamming closed

Is strangely gratifying.

  I reach into the bed of the pick-up

And grab my wooden shovel,

But didn’t think to bring any gloves.

  At the base of a rock face,

I plunge the metal spade into

Soil that is neither soft nor hard.

The steady repetition of digging

Creates a soothing hum within

And every muscle in my body grows warm.

Striking, pulling, lifting, tossing,

The hours pass unnoticed but for the

Sweat on my skin, drenching my clothing

As the afternoon sun beats down

With unwavering intensity, its red rays

Burning my olive complexion red hot.

My arms begin to throb with fatigue,

Protesting that they are too weak

To go on, and I notice I’ve

Hit the six-foot mark.

  It is then that I know what

Purpose this ditch will serve,

And why I yearned to dig it.

  It is here that I shall bury my heart,

Here that I shall bury my spirit,

Here that I shall bury my soul,

Here that I must lay to rest

All of the beauty and love I once possessed,

Now dead, lifeless, ugly, decaying,

And I must dispose of the evidence

Before the stench hits the air,

Before others catch wind of the truth.

  Into the grave, the corpse of all

That’s been murdered is placed.

  The splinters in my hands begin

To sting and throb as I slowly

Fill the ditch back up with the

Dirt I’d just dug out.

I listen to it pelt down upon

My still, unmoving dreams,

Covering and concealing the

Knife wounds, the tears,

The protests that had fallen on

Cruel, deaf ears, and the red, red blood.

  With the flat side of the shovel,

I pat the earth down, flattening

The awkward mound in an effort

To disguise the disruption of the landscape.

I pick some dandelions growing

Wild nearby and blow their spores

Absentmindedly over the surface

Of the covered ditch, hoping they

Might be inspired to grow in this spot.

  I pick eucalyptus leaves and scatter

Them across the grave, their fragrance

Rubbed into my splintered palms.

   I place rocks here and there,

Arranging them just-so, finding solace

In their smooth, cool forms.

  I stand back and survey my work,

My eyes burning and bloodshot and red.

The killer is still on the loose,

Free to continue taking innocent lives

As he sees fit, and I now

Mourn the loss of my own.

  It is a quiet, confronting funeral,

Seeing as how I am the only

Guest in attendance, lacking the

Foresight to invite anyone else.

Footsteps fall in the distance, and

Turning around, I notice that a

Select few knew to show up anyway.

They offer condolences, vengeance,

Gifts, but their presence is

All that I need or desire.

  I leave my shovel, my truck, my death,

And trust these stars to guide me home.

The red moon cries all the tears

That I can not, and I never

Fantasize about digging ditches again.