Post Holes 2

Fifteen post holes. That's the penance I got for wishing a similar fate on Ben. But as I lifted the post hole digger and thrust it at the ground, it didn't seem so bad.

As I dug each hole, sweat ran down my forehead, and I thought of digging post holes in the limestone and caliche of Central Texas. And I heard the sawing and pounding of Burt and Jenny and Colin in the attic. And I thought of Tom running power cables up walls and across rafters and coaxing hot, twisted wires into junction boxes and outlets and switches.

I stood there with my back to the lake, a cool breeze blowing off the water, the sun dancing at my feet from the forest canopy above. With each thrust of the digger, I pulled up large, damp, cool clumps of yellow Western Michigan sand and made fifteen little piles.

No, fifteen post holes in that place wasn't hard justice.

I got off way easy.

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