Post Hole by Gary Burdge

It was early fall. The days were cloudless, hot  in direct sunlight, but cool in the shade, the air sweet-smelling.

I stood on the couch in front of a window, watching my dad make piles of dirt along the edge of the yard. “What’s Dad doing?” I called to Mom. 

“He’s digging post holes.”

“What’s a post hole?”

“It’s a hole for a post. Dad’s making a fence.”

I said, “Mr. French is here talking to Dad.” The neighbor, who lived next door, was almost ninety. He was thin, stooped, with gnarly hands and a long white beard. Whenever he came to the yard, I put my arm around Dad’s leg or grasped his pants pocket.

Mom came from the kitchen, kneeled on the couch, and looked out with me. “Would you like to go see what Dad’s doing?” 

I was a little worried about Mr. French, but I said yes. Soon, I stood on the porch and watched Mr. French poke a stick into one of the holes. The old man waved and smiled. Quietly, I stepped off the porch and walked to one of the dirt piles. Then I nudged the dirt with my shoe until it slid into the hole. But I couldn’t see enough. I remember the dirt at the edge, bright from the early morning sun. But inside, the hole revealed only blackness.

I knelt to get closer, but the hole remained a mystery. I slid my hand into the dirt pile. It was cool and damp. I squeezed some into my palm and held it over the hole, then watched it leave my hand, fall through the bright sunlight, and disappear. I leaned closer, and my hat slipped off, taking some dirt with it.

I glanced over at Dad, but he and Mr. French were far away, examining something at the yard’s end. I looked for Mom, but the window was empty. To grab my hat, I lowered my face into that flat, black hole. In an instant, I was on my head in the soft dirt, my shoulders wedged tightly, arms at my sides, one hand partly in a pocket. Dirt fell in around me, filling my mouth and nose. 

“Mommy, Daddy!” I yelled. 

I listened for their voices. Nothing. Now I tasted dirt, felt it in my eyes and began to cry. As Mom later explained, she eventually came from the kitchen and looked out the window. The yard was empty.

She opened the door and called to Dad. “Where’s Gary?” They surveyed the yard, then Dad gasped, pointing to the post hole. That’s when Mom noticed my shoes, kicking just above the grass. Mom was young, a fast runner, and only a few feet away. But Dad beat her to the hole.

Right away, I was back in the light, in my Dad’s grasp, with Mom wiping dirt from my mouth and eyes, making a mess of her apron. Mr. French appeared with a cup of water. For a moment, he held my face gently with his hands. I was told to drink, but not swallow, then spit it out. After a few coughs, the incident was over. Mr. French said he would stop by to see me later, a promise that he kept just after I emerged from the tub, well-scrubbed.

The following day, Dad put in the posts and poured cement. The holes were gone. The yard was different. Soon after, I walked alone across the yard, hesitated briefly, then went to Mr. French’s house, a place that seemed softer and warmer than before. 

There in the corner of the yard, Mr. French kept a hive of bees. That day, I crossed the yard alone and tasted honey for the first time, right from the comb.

Gary Burdge is a retired elementary teacher for Seattle Public Schools. He has two grown daughters, two grandchildren, and lives in Seattle with his wife of 53 years. He has been writing his life stories for many decades.