Dirt

Reflections on land, memory, and the stories the soil keeps.

Dirt. When’s the last time you thought about dirt? Washing it off in the shower? Digging in it to plant your garden? It’s unavoidable, all around us. Maybe, because it’s expected to be there, to be stable, it never enters your mind.

Maybe you should think about it.

If we dig deep, yes, pun intended, we find the dirt holds what came before us and reclaims what has been discarded. It holds us today, supports our structures, our roads, and grows our life-sustaining crops. Tomorrow, it will reclaim us, too.

The dirt holds memories. It holds stories.

We only have to look.

Hundreds of years ago, the dirt my family now calls home was roamed by Comanche, also perhaps Tonkawa or Lipan Apache. This dirt holds their stories as well, sometimes revealed by a recent rain, a plow moving through the field, or a cow meandering down the trail they’ve carved to reach the creek. I like to think about their time under the great oaks, sitting by the creek. I imagine what this place looked like before fence lines and planted crops.

Over 100 years ago Great Grandpa purchased this land and began to work it. It eventually passed to his son, then on to his daughters, and, one day, will pass on to me. It is my hope through this series to honor the stories, show others the beauty, and create a memory before the dirt covers my time here.

I am a steward of the land, and therefore a steward of the memories.

Each time I turn down that county road, I always stop, roll down my window, and breathe. A slow, deep breath in to let go of the stress from city life. My shoulders instantly drop as I take in the smell of dirt and grass. Usually, the dog is with me, and I don’t know which of us sticks our head further out the window to revel in the smell of the countryside. The red dirt I remember from my childhood has been replaced by county-installed white gravel. The gravel makes the road much more traversable during rains than the slick, red soil, but I miss the color. Thankfully, the smell is the same.

It’s then a slow roll towards the rock house, looking for what’s changed since my last visit. A grasshopper finds my windshield, and I watch him try to hang on as I continue. We drive around the bend hoping the neighbor’s big, white sheep dog doesn’t try to chase us down. I’m always afraid I’ll hit him, but he seems to know how to herd cars as well as he herds the sheep that live there. We drive down the hill and then reach the corner where it begins. I pause again, this time in appreciation of the pasture spread out before me with its heritage oaks dotting the coastal Bermuda grasses.

Home.

I feel at home.

This place is where I run when my life becomes too much. The openness brings me peace and restores me. It serves as a refuge against the storms of life. I seek refuge here, yet this place fights its own storms and sometimes tries to throw them my way. The fiercest of those storms is time. Time’s cruelty is evident in the barren lands from too little rain. It shows in the rusted tin and peeling paint. It rears its ugly head in the collapsing buildings and eroding banks of the creek.

With each trip, there’s more evidence of deterioration. I wince, wishing I could fix it all, bring it back to life, or at least preserve what’s left. But that takes time itself. And I have only a weekend.

So, time wins again.

Another sheet of tin has blown off the granary roof, exposing the boards beneath, rotted by years of weather. The next sheet is beginning to curl at the corner, announcing its intentions to join its neighbor. Another fence line is torn open by wild pigs. Another branch has fallen from the pecan tree, tortured by the latest drought. I wonder what Great Grandpa would think if he could see it now.

Nature is quick to reclaim what we neglect. We think we’re in control. But, really, are we? Our time here is brief, and it’s our duty to live life to the fullest while we’re here. It’s easy to focus on the ravages of time and miss the beauty around us, to overlook the life that still bursts forth from the soil.

And since my time here is short, I choose to look. I stretch my legs and let the dog run free. I am grateful for this place, for the people who came before me, and for those who will come after.

Let’s go see what the dirt reveals this time around.

Dirt is a series of essays reflecting on the passing of time. Through stories of country life, city living, motherhood, and history, I explore the small moments that reveal deeper meaning. I hope you follow along.