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| Ashes to ashes. |
So I gathered some wood, really just some twigs since it
wasn’t going to be a big fire at all, and I got down to business. I’ve done this more times than I can count,
and so my mind gets to wandering . . . and I don’t always pay attention at such
times. Well, my hands were dirty from
sweat, gathering the wood, and then starting the fire. Not to mention greasy sausages. I figured I’d just clean up with some water
afterward, and then I burnt my thumb on a seared sausage from sheer
carelessness. That, and I was so hungry I
couldn’t wait for things to cool down.
Out of reflex, I immediately placed my dirty thumb in my mouth, and as I said I was
so darn hungry that the dirt tasted pretty good to me, probably due to the
grease. I could not have cared less
about the dirt and ash. They were like
seasoning. Well, I had to laugh my head
off about that. And just then a memory
was jarred, as often happens at such times.
I remembered my father telling me when I was very young, “Ya gotta eat a
bushel of dirt before ya die.” He always
said that. “Ya gotta eat a bushel of
dirt before ya die.”
He was a hard man, a very hard man, who died young when I
was very young myself. He lived through
a few wars, both in the outside world and inside his mind, and he was usually
pretty distant. He didn’t talk much and
he wasn’t around much, and my memories of him are not pristine and
perfect. But every now and then, I still
think of him.
I finished up the sausages and put out the fire. I used some water to rinse my hands and face
off, and my wet bandana told a tale of someone who could have used a bit of
soap just then. No matter. I had places to go and things to do. I grabbed my pack, slung it over my
shoulders, and tightened the straps. I
put on my hat and started walking. “I’m
working on that bushel, Dad,” I said, “I just hope I haven’t filled it up all
the way yet.”
