This is a photograph of me. I’m in Scott, Louisiana, near Lafayette. To be precise, I’m in Ossun, an unincorporated community of 2,144, north of Scott. Even more precise, I’m in front of the house I’m living in with my girlfriend, Gaywynn, which is on a sparsely populated country road in that unincorporated community. Our next door neighbor is a long-haul trucker. Across the road lives a mysterious man who moved here only recently and has since installed a large iron fence that keeps out we’re not sure what. Or in, possibly. He lives with his mother who we never see.
What am I doing? It rains a lot in this part of Louisiana. At times, relentlessly. The land—thick, clayey—does not absorb the water well. It can take days before the standing water is finally absorbed. What you’re seeing here is me on our front lawn during a rain we had a few days ago. I’m trying to connect the various flooded areas, Panama Canal-like, so the water can flow to the street. Or, actually, to the ditch near the street where water collects.
I’ve never done this before. Even if I had, it would be tricky. How do you establish a continual grade by sight that starts at the house and descends gradually, foot by foot, for maybe 200 feet, so that the water runs on a downward incline freely to the street? At this point in the photo, I’m simply trying to connect the two major bodies of water by cutting an isthmus. If it works, it will be beneficial. The lawn will drain a lot sooner.
The digging is hard. I’m not used to it. I’m 77, but I’m still more than up for it. That’s heartening! As I said, the soil is clayey, and clay is dense and heavy and not easy to dislodge. It’s somewhat easier in the rain, though, because at least the clay is not hardened by the sun, as it normally is. I’m panting, but the rain washing over me makes me feel good, and, hopefully, slightly heroic in Gaywynn’s eyes. Or maybe the dog’s. I wouldn’t want to do this 10 hours a day, every day, though, but for an hour or two, I know I’m doing good, honest work. Are we always certain about that? I’m not.
Thrusting a shovel into the earth is primal. It’s just your body, the shovel and the ground. Like rowing a boat, you can’t get more essential than that. The shovel is an ancient, noble tool that allows you to feel an intimate connection with the earth. The only contact with the soil more intimate is with your hands. No one has made any profound improvements on the design of the shovel. (Straight or rounded blade, take your choice, but that’s it.) Materials, yes, maybe, but concept? No.
My efforts at connecting the two bodies of water on our lawn to make a navigable canal through our lawn were only moderately successful. The task was beyond me, really. I have so much to learn. I can report, though, that at least some of the water in the little lake nearest to the road did, in fact, drain into the ditch. Still, my work had simplicity and purpose.
I came back out of the rain. My arms were tired, my chest was heaving. I was wet, sweaty, spent and happy.
great piece and picture!
Eagerly awaiting your sci-fi epic: Moon Dirt