Pure Dirt (eBook)

Chapter One:
The Red Machine

Rose rummaged through the junk on the side of the house looking for anything that might alleviate her boredom. Within minutes, her two young cousins who lived in the apartment upstairs greeted her.

“What are you doing?” Hank asked.

“Nothing.” Rose said.

“Do you want to play red light?” Hank asked again.

“No.” Rose replied, picking up an old window screen and examining it. There was a small hole in the top corner. She gazed at the front yard which was covered in dirt and scattered stones. Even the weeds refused to grow there.

“I’ve got an idea,” Rose exclaimed, “Grab that bucket.”

Hank and his younger brother, Jeremy, each took a side of the handle on the heavy steel bucket.”

“Bring it to the front porch.” Rose commanded.

“What for?” Jeremy asked.

Rose pointed to the ground.

“See this dirt? If we put it on top of this screen and shake it, the stones will stay on top, and the dirt will fall into the bucket. We’ll make pure dirt and sell it.”

Rose scooped a trowel of soil and dumped it, shaking the screen back and forth until the small stones danced up and down, the fine powder of dirt sieved into the bucket.

“Wow!” Hank blurted, “Amazing!”

Rose, Hank, and Jeremy spent that afternoon scooping dirt from the yard with a trowel and shaking it clean through the window screen. The sun was hot, and they labored until they had a half bucket full.

“Now what?” Hank asked.

Rose looked around and picked up a snow cone cup from the litter along the fence.

“We’ll put the dirt in here and put it in the fence out front. We’ll make a sign that says ‘Pure Dirt. Free Sample.’”

Jeremy ran upstairs to fetch a marker, paper, lunch bags, and scotch tape. Hank and Rose fixed the cup of pure dirt into the fence bordering the sidewalk. The sales pitch was hung with tape above the cup.

The cousins sat behind the fence all afternoon waiting for anyone to come along and sample their marvelous invention. Their enthusiasm began to wane when an elderly gentleman came swaggering down the sidewalk. Spotting the cup, and the sign, he stopped and asked, “What are you kids doing?”

“We’re selling pure dirt. Put your hand in the cup and see how soft. It’s 25 cents a bag,” Rose pitched.

The old man was returning from a visit at the saloon. He placed his hand in the cup.

“Would you like to buy a bag?” Rose asked.

“How much?”

“Only a quarter.”

The old man reached into his pocket and handed Rose a quarter through the fence. Rose grabbed the coin. “Here,” she said to Hank handing him the bag. Hank walked to the gate and handed the bag of dirt to the man.

“Thanks!” he said.

“You’re welcome,” the man replied. As he teetered away, he burst out loud in a howl of laughter that caught Hank by surprise.

Hank and Jeremy dashed up the stairs and into the kitchen where their mother was stirring onions in an iron skillet.

“Look at your hands,” she scolded, “What were you doing?”

“Selling pure dirt,” Jeremy replied.

“Pure dirt! Come over here, look at your hands,” she commented turning the faucet at the sink. “I don’t know how you kids get so dirty. I told you not to play in the front yard,” she reprimanded.

“What’s for dinner?” Hank asked, attempting to distract her.

“Hamburger hash,” their mother, Willow, replied.

“Can I have an ice cream cone?” Jeremy asked.

“No, you’ll spoil your dinner. Go to your room. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Hank went over to the small plastic organ in his room. He turned the knob on the side, and the plastic blower started to make a whooshing sound. Turning the pages of a music book resting against the stand, he pressed the keys following the numbers. Each note in the book was color-numbered to match the paper strip that ran along the top length of the keyboard. He picked out a familiar tune.

1 1 5 5 6 6 5 4 4 3 3 2 2 1

“TWIN-KLE, TWIN-KLE LIT-TLE STAR, HOW-I-WON-DER-WHAT-YOU-ARE.”

He felt accomplished, but quickly grew bored in a matter of minutes. In the living room, Jeremy sat and watched a Popeye cartoon on the black and white television.

“Olive Oyl is so dumb,” Jeremy remarked, “she always gets caught by Brutus, and Popeye has to rescue her.”

“I think Wimpy is dumb. He always tries to borrow hamburgers using the same tired old line. Who would fall for that penniless beggar?” Hank observed.

They watched as Popeye opened a can of spinach with a flame bursting from his corn cob pipe. He swallowed the spinach, and his bicep grew to three times its size. The guns of his battleship tattoo fired missiles across the bow of his skin. Brutus was in for it. Popeye landed a punch. Brutus landed in a pile of laundry.

“I hate spinach,” Jeremy blurted.

“Come and get it!”

The boys joined at the dinner table. A steaming casserole of hamburger hash, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a bowl of canned asparagus awaited them. Willow poured each boy a glass of cold milk. Joe, the boy’s father, sat across the table in his stained green service station work shirt. His fingers were stained from grease even though he had thoroughly washed them with Lux.

“What did you boys do today?” the father asked.

“Played in the yard. Mom, can I have juice instead of milk?”

Joe lifted his eyes from his plate.

“You need milk for strong bones. You don’t want to be weak, do you?”

“It tastes funny,” the boy replied.

“Finish your milk or you won’t leave the table.”

Jeremy chimed in. “This asparagus tastes funny. It’s mushy. I don’t like it.”

“You’re lucky that you have something to eat. There are children starving in China?”

Hank looked up from his plate at his father, “Can’t we send it to them?”

“Finish everything, or else!”

Hank and Jeremy sat at the table long after their father had left the kitchen. Jeremy quietly placed asparagus stalks under the edge of his plate. Hank stared at the half-emptied glass of milk now approaching room temperature. He picked up the glass, pinched his nose with his left fingers, and downed the milk in a few quick gulps.

“Can I leave now?” Hank asked.

Willow walked to the table. Lifting Jeremy’s plate, she found a perfectly round ring of asparagus stalks. “I told you to stop hiding food under your plate,” she rebuked, “Don’t tell your father. You can get up.” Willow didn’t care for the canned vegetables herself. She filled the sink with soapy water, removed her wedding ring for safekeeping, and plunged her hands into the steaming hot dishwater.

On Sunday morning, Hank walked two blocks with his father to his service station. Hank was put in charge of sorting the Sunday papers and setting them in a row on top of the metal stand, growing excited at the prospect of earning tips selling papers to the customers. He watched as his father lifted the heavy garage bay door and uncoiled the long black hose on the ground around the pumps. He couldn’t resist slamming his sneakers on the hose causing the warning bell to ring in the garage bay. He pounded it repeatedly.

“Hank! That’s enough!” his father pleaded.

“Can I have a Coke?” he asked.

“It’s too early. Wait until lunch,” Joe said.

Hank walked over to the cigarette machine and pressed several of the illuminated buttons each displaying a different brand.

“Get away from there,” Joe said, “that’s for grown-ups.”

Joe leaned back in the swivel chair next to his desk. Hank walked over to the desk and picked up the colorful Sunday comics section of the newspaper. He paged through it. Li’l Abner was a lovestruck hillbilly. The Phantom was up to something mysterious. Silly little Nancy had a hairdo that looked like a buzz saw. Dondi was always smiling. What was he so happy about? Popeye! Better not mess with him. The bell in the bay rang, and Hank lifted his eyes. He left the office and walked to the newspaper stand.

“Morning Joe, fill ‘er up with high test.”

“How’s it going, Ed?”

Hank’s father pulled the back-license plate of the Dodge down, unscrewed the gas cap, cranked the handle on the gas pump, and inserted the nozzle.

“What was the number yesterday?” Ed Cummings asked.

“419,” Joe replied.

“419…not even close,” Bill said.

The numbers on the gas pump spun as...