Blog #1: Eating Dirt

January 30th, 2013

Feeling sneaky, I crossed across the lawn, feeling the wet grass in between my toes and the sunshine hitting hard down upon my bleach-blonde bob. Kneeling in the grass, my dress surrounded me. I knew Mother would get mad at me for getting it dirty but the thought merely came and left. The cinder blocks separating the garden from the lawn were right at my knees. Turning and looking behind me, I knew no one was looking through the screen door that led into the kitchen. I had to accomplish the task quickly before she came outside. Before she saw me. Before I got in trouble. I grabbed a handful, and it was cool and gritty in my hands. Days before, my sister and I had made mud pies and they looked so appetizing. I didn't understand why she ruined my creation before I could even taste it. Stealing another look from behind me, I double checked that no one was around and put the dirt in my mouth. I slowly chewed it and pushed it around in my mouth. The taste was bland and the texture made my heart heavy with regret. I spit it out at once and then ran back inside for water.

When I think of this memory, it seems so detailed inside my head. I know this is one of my earliest memories because I was only two or three years old when I lived in the house it happened at. The issue is that this memory might be a compilation of other memories. My sister and I made mud pies so many times and I'm almost positive that wasn't the only time I had put the cool earth ground on my tongue. Did it really happen like that? No one would know but me. No one else was around to watch. Is it still true? Yes and no. It's based on fact, although the facts happened over sixteen years ago. My life is like a game of telephone. It starts out as cold, hard truth. Over time, things happen I forget, I remember, I forget, I remember. My brain becomes so compiled of so many other memories that some things have to be ejected, some things have to be compiled, and others are too important to leave behind. We simply do not have enough room to remember it all. Is it true? It's based off of a true story. I could call it a Creative Nonfiction merely because I didn't simply state the facts but I stated the facts in a creative manner. The truth is that I ate dirt when I was a little girl and nothing can change that. It's fact.