Don't ask-

BACK YARD BLUES

 

I have to believe that my shivering house does not foretell an earthquake. In a slight lull, I throw open the front door, see swirling dust and begin shivering myself. The entire Jackson Township, a mere two miles from Anderson, disappeared six months ago. It was all over the t.v. national news for days. What happened was, with no warning, a huge hole opened in the earth and nearly half of the town's long time residents, their homes, everything fell in.

 

Ropes, extension ladders, chains went down, never hit bottom. Whatever went down before the useless help got there, stayed down.
Flowers soon circled the pit. Candle light prayers were offered every night. Chanting, tears just went on and on, giving no solace, no peace of mind.

 

It was ironic that the morticians should have been in heaven with lots of work to do, but no bodies were available. Monahan's Funeral Home happened to be near the Appleby's who drove over to look down the hole, ran their car into the library's brick wall and both were killed.

 

The quivering in my house has stopped for a while. I chance taking a walk. Everything is still. All that has happened recently is like a dream, a nightmare. Dust begins to blow. The loud noise of heavy bulldozers, vibrations under my feet, send me home fast. Along my route workers are putting up a billboard. My curiosity is not quite strong enough to keep me there watching to see what is coming.

 

Since Jackson Township disappeared nothing is the same. Reporters still show up, take thousands of pictures of the giant claws dropping endless dirt into the darkness. Now and then someone makes fun of the effort, talks about the hole being a big toilet, letting stuff come in and sending it on its way. I feel at those times like Molly, old Fibber McGee's wife, who always got a snicker when she said, 'tain't funny McGee.' I think about that and don't remember it wasn't funny then and isn't now.

 

The billboard is up. It just is there, no ads, nothing coming. If they don't put something on it soon, the wood paneling will disintegrate in the dust and help to fill the hole. A panel truck, shiny new and white, makes a circle thru the grass, around the sign, parks at a 45 degree angle from the barren sigh. The driver and three workers bring wooden horses and flat boards to lay their long ad sheets. Vats of liquid paste, brushes with handles about ten feet long are piled around the sign. A crowd begins to form. I'm close enough to be part of 'the crowd.'

 

We wait expectantly for two hours, watching, trying to make sense out of sheets being pasted on from each of the four corners inward. Evening is coming fast. So are rain clouds. The workmen gathered their tools, don't finish their task. They leave a lone watchman to guard their equipment thru the storm, thru the night. No one shows up for work the next day.

 

If the storm hit, I didn't hear it. I slept well for a change. No nightmares, no fears. Right after sun-up I notice that the sky is already a most gorgeous shade of blue. My little barren garden that has been nothing but yellow sand seems green this morning. In my robe I go outside to see if I need new glasses or my garden has grown over night. I step on something squishy and see my feet are purplish. Blueberries are bursting from the ground.

 

Neighbors on both sides of my house are on their steps, watching me.
The Franklins, on my right, have two overflowing bowls of fresh red strawberries. On my left, the Thomlinsons are picking oranges off a tree they didn't have yesterday. The dusty soil that has been powdering us for months has settled down.

 

I don't know about any one else, but I don't want to eat my blueberries. The soil has grown too rich, too fertile.

 

It's strength can only come from one place. I shake my head hard, go inside and put the berries down the disposal.