I’m Going to Dig a Hole

Many, many years ago, at my childhood house in the Santa Cruz mountains, I grabbed a shovel and started to dig a hole.

Why? Unclear. I was six or seven. I’d seen what my Dad could do with a shovel, so one afternoon…. I started digging, and by the time evening approached, my Dad walked out, “So, wha’cha doing there?”

At the time of the hole intervention, I’d been at my hole digging for a couple of hours, and while that sounds like a lot of time, I was only two or three feet deep in a hole maybe the size of a picnic table. The removed dirt was tossed carelessly in every direction.

“I’m digging a hole.”

“I see that. Wha’cha planning on doing with that hole?”

No real answer at the ready. Like pulling a stick from a stream, I was mostly enthralled with the act of digging a hole. I dodged his question, “Yeah, I think I’m going to need some wooden columns here at some point. Ya’know, to hold the ceiling up when I get that far.”

Dad, “Uh huh.” The hole was three or four feet deep — barely above my knees. And it was getting dark.

I continued, “And I am worried about moisture…. ya’know? Dripping from the ceiling.”

Dad, “Yeah. I get that.” Barely to my seven-year old knees.

The digging continued for another hour. I’d discovered blisters (no gloves) and also dirt was now falling back into the hole with each shovel-full (no solid dirt extraction plan), but my Dad stood there the entire time. Question continued:

Dad: “Maybe we should get you a wheelbarrow? You could move the dirt into the ravine.” I ignored him and kept digging.

Me: “Dad, do we have a wooden chest? Where could we keep my stuff in the cave? Like a treasure chest?” Dad, “I’m sure we could figure that out.”

You think you know how this story ends, and you’re mostly correct. We covered my picnic-table-sized shallow hole with a piece of plywood to “make sure no one falls in.” My plan was to finish digging the following day, but I have no memory of that picnic-table-sized hole after that night. I’m sure I visited it the next day, but the interest had vanished.

I don’t remember this story because of the picnic-table-sized shallow hole; I remember this story because of my Dad. He walked out of the house and found his young son digging a random hole on the property. No plan, poorly equipped, but enthusiastically digging. He stood there asking questions, not judging. Supporting the dream.

Just letting me gleefully dig.

He taught me that no one knows where inspiration comes from — only that it’s fragile, invaluable, and fleeting.