Legends from our own lunchtimes

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Sand Pits

Today as I was shovelling and chipping away digging the drain down the side of Mr Four's shed, I couldn't help but wonder where in our makeup the desire to dig comes from. When we are small there seems to be some sort of instinct to dig in anything that is softer than our finger tips.

After yesterday's sand pit adventure with our boys, it would be remiss of me not to record that I am something of a sandpit guru, having spent hours honing my craft in the sand pit under my grandparent's tank stand when I was Mr Four.  Even though the structure was removed midway through last century my memories of that wondrous space are still as fresh as when they were planted.

There was little head room for me even then, and a crawl-way through the lattice gate through the papyrus, mint and fish fern to what was really a very secret if perpetually damp spot.

The smell of cat poo would mingle with the mint as I mined the sand using a couple of prosthetic hands my grandfather had left there for the purpose.

One of us has suggested that that very memory may explain a lot.  Perhaps I should leave it there.


Anonymous said...

Wow matching hairstyles - well Elliott and you... for the time being!

Annie said...

sounds an interesting little childhood memory. and sandpit.

enjoy the boys.

can't wait for my number 9 g-child. But enjoying number 8 all the same for the moment. and soon all 8 of them for a week. will be interesting.

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