One summer back when my family and I lived where my grandma now lives, my brothers and a girl down the street decided to start digging the Pit.
The pit started as a small hole in the backyard near the patio. I think we started it on a Friday. On Saturday, the girl down the street gave up, but I joined the pack.
Eventually, as we dug deeper, we started adding water to – you know – “help the digging along.” Pretty soon, though, we were filling the pit with water and playing in it like a small swimming hole.
Funny thing about pits – when they’re deep enough and steep enough and wet enough, they’re sorta, kinda-ish difficult to climb out of.
I mean, this thing was like three and a half feet deep, and I was the tallest at probably 4′-something.
A couple other memories:
- Somewhere along the line, someone may or may not have pushed someone else into the pit.
- Ted made “toe holes” to help himself climb out. For some reason, we still talk about toe holes. “Toe holes” just sounds funny.
After a day or two of fun, my mom told us to fill the pit back in. We wrote our names, ages, and the pit’s dimensions on a small piece of wood, sealed the wood in a zip-lock bag, and buried the whole package at the bottom of the pit.
See, we were smart about the dirt. We’d kept it all in a wagon and on tarps. No big deal to put it all back.
:>)
I’m pretty sure science tells us somewhere that when dirt’s removed from a hole, it creates a mini-black hole. I forget what the law’s called. All I know is that the dirt we put back into the pit somehow didn’t fill the pit. Ever.
Neither did the three or four bags of top soil we later dumped on top.
That still puzzles me.
My mom wasn’t too happy about it. Because even though the pit wasn’t around anymore, the pit was still around… in the landry, in the kitchen, in the garage, and even still showing in the backyard next to the patio.
