I have to tell you my story of chasing down some dirt. Here's how it went:
MARK G. STITH
I couldn't believe my eyes. I blinked a couple of times, hoping to maybe clear the unbelievable scene I was witnessing.
One of the city's big ole dump trucks was driving past my house with what appeared to be a truckload of dirt. It was good-lookin' dirt, too. Brown and rich- just like coffee grounds. Where were they going? Surely not the garbage dump.
They were stopping at houses along my street to pick up household trash and stuff. One of my neighbors had a beat-up pair of black boots out by the sidewalk. That was it. I ran into the house to grab my car keys and give chase. Not for the boots. For the dirt.
I cranked the car, then sped off with the windows down, the better to hear them with. I heard the rumbling of a truck a couple of streets away, so I turned in that direction.
And there it was. The dirt truck. One of the guys was grappling with an unwanted sofa as I drove up. I pulled up beside the driver and stuck my head out.
"Hey, where are you going with that dirt?" I asked.
He gave me a funny look, as if I was kidding. He was driving a sanitation vehicle. They have two destinations: to the trash pickup sites, and then to the dump.
"Goin' to the dump," he answered.
"Well there's some great dirt back there," I replied. "Instead of putting it in the sanitary landfill, could you just dump it at my house?"
After considering it for awhile, he answered. "Sure. But that dirt has a lot of glass, bottle caps, and trash in it," he warned.
"I don't care," I told him. "Most of it looks like good dirt, and that's what I need."
I give him directions, and sure enough, in about 10 minutes, up rumbles the big truck (they hadn't put the sofa on it yet. I'm not sure that would have composted well.)
"Where do you want me to dump it?" he asked. Hmm. I hadn't thought that far in my plan. My lust for the dirt overwhelmed any practical thinking.
"Just dump it in my driveway," I said. "I'll handle it from there.
Slowly, the back of the dump truck tilts skyward, and it does what dump trucks do: dump. Out pours a large brown pile about the size of an igloo in my driveway. Luckily, I had parked my sedan along the curb, so I wasn't going to have to do any dangerous, professional-driver-only mountain jumping over The Dirt Lump.
"Thank you," I said. I slipped him a $20 bill. He smiled, but couldn't avoid a final smart-aleck remark.
"Enjoy your dirt," he said, as the truck roared off. Poor guy. He didn't understand. But you gardeners get it. Y'all, this was primo dirt. So rich and loamy, you could bake brownies if you didn't mind spitting out glass shards, rusty bottle caps, nails, fast food containers, and other stuff I have been unable to identify. But most of it is brown gold. My yard is primarily flint-packed clay. I've had pick-axes bounce off of it. I once planted a 7-foot tall holly bush after hours of hacking and whacking a planting hole that looked pretty much like a clay bucket.
The next day, the holly was tumped over on its side. But I knew better. That bush was trying to escape its clay coffin, pulling itself out of the hole and crawling away in search of greener pastures.
But I came to the rescue of that runaway holly, as well as all my green friends. Now there is plenty of rich soil for everyone. Yes, it isn't pure, but it was more than 90 per cent beautiful dirt. And little by little, a wheelbarrow load at a time, the good dirt is going where it will do the most good: in a garden.
Not the landfill. Thank goodness.
Happy gardening!
Copyright 2007 The Southern Ledger. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed
