some thoughts while digging graves

and the biological reality of men

The first time I toured Canada, one of the dudes that I worked with spent his summers digging graves. At the dinner table my dad grilled him about this.

I dunno Mr. Dalling, I just love to dig.

His address of my father was as much a throw back as his 25 year old virginity. He was tall, handsome smart and very Catholic. Sure he’d ‘play around’ but intercourse? Only once married.

My dad put this digger to work planting fence posts in the yard. Though he liked hard work, the soil around Dartmouth nearly killed him.

We don’t have rocks like this back home Mr. Dalling.

This he said while soaked with sweat and nursing blisters on his hands

How often do you find yourself digging graves?

Yesterday was one of those days.

I made a hole in the backyard for Jellybean.

I loved that fucking hen. She deserved better than a green bin burial.

Beside? Green bin day was 12 days away and the forecast called for a lot of heat and humidity. Things would get really stinky and really maggoty really really quickly. F…