Son and Shovel

It wasn't every day Jared had to shovel the yard. No, it was every other Tuesday, and only if it hadn't rain the day before, was currently raining, or the weatherman predicted a more than thirty-four percent chance of rain the next day. Snow was also a negator, as were the other expected phenomenon: thunder and lighting (with or without rain), tornado, or afterschool activity. He could and did perform his duty the day after The Tornado tore the roof off of his elementary school. Aside from that day he'd never seen a twister, so if he would work the day before was still a bit of a mystery.

His bedroom contained a massive floor to ceiling, wall to wall, flow chart on his eastward wall, (the one without window, door, bed, or bookcase) outlining whether to shovel or not. It started, perhaps not as obviously as one might expect with “Is today Tuesday”, but precisely with the question “Is your name Jared Hubb Elrado, born on the 17^th of May 2003?” The whole chart was composed in clear black lines, readable block letters, and only two final results, “Shovel” or “Ask Dad”.

Because of the consistency of the answer to the first question, Jared had considered crossing it out, painting over it, or writing “yes” into the box, but fortunately he realized the enormity of such initiative. If he altered the chart without oversight or instruction, how could he be trusted to continue following the chart. Or something. His dad had explained it to him and while he was very good at following written directions, he often missed details that were directed to him by the spoken word.

One time, digging out in the yard, he wondered what he'd do if an earthquake began. He'd begun reading Candide, and it awakened in him other concerns as well, but the chart preempted all other thought. He immediately visualized the chart as it hung, or rather plastered to the wall (he'd once tried to peel it from the bottom right corner, but found this impossible even with a small pocketknife) and worked through all three hundred and seventy-five of its little boxes. There was no directions for an earthquake. And here, I'm sorry to say, Jared began to use logic to determine a solution to his troubles. An earthquake, he reasoned, was like a tornado. It appeared one day without warning, and was gone the next. Not even the next, but a few hours later. Remember Jared had only witnessed one tornado, and it wasn't witnessing as much as hearing about a small twister which touched down for a few minutes a two hour car ride away.

The same was true of his experience with earthquakes, except they occurred always in foreign countries beyond the ocean.

But anyways, he assumed the two were alike, and therefore since he wielded a shovel the day after the tornado, he assumed he would do the same after an earthquake. Or before, only because no one could predict an earthquake.

It must be admitted that sometimes, and he was becoming curious as he expanded his logical thinking, that sometimes shoveling occurred not on Tuesdays but Wednesdays, Thursday, Fridays, and even Mondays. These were the times when the chart ended with, “Ask Dad” and he would dutifully search for his father in the house. Unable to locate him, Jared would wait, sometimes only speaking to his father as he was tucked into bed. But when he did find Dad, Dad would look up from his comfortable arm chair, glance at his watch and say, “Maybe tomorrow”. And maybe ended up being a fifty-fifty split. Now that he really thought about it, Jared realized he'd been shoveling two or three times a week on average instead of the stated goal of once every other week.

Of course, shoveling didn't always mean digging. Nope. The day Jared began, three to four years ago, was the first day of digging. And the second day? Filling in. The trend alternated with no variation, dig one day, fill in the hole the next.

The excavation was of a very precise nature, with a prescribed length, width, and depth. Holes would not have been a suitable name for the work Jared did. They were not circular, but square as precision instruments could inform them.

Side by side, like a grid the expanded, one by one, incrementally. Contain inside each one: a tiny bag, as small as a common eraser. Opaque: Jared couldn't see what each held. Smooth and almost slippery, the texture defied examination. And he wouldn't look.

Except for the time he tried. It was knotted. He couldn't cut through it, then the sabotage would be obvious, the observers not deceived. So he spent three excruciating hours undoing the tight, frustrating binding, until he could open it and discover. Nothing. But he was certain there had been something, or if not, the myriad other bags he'd buried beneath the ground had contained something.

He continued to dig, to look, to place, and bury. Square foot by square foot he searched for the treasure his father promised to split with him, and then hid in the bags in order to fool anyone who might be searching as well.

He'd always hoped and longed for the treasure hidden underneath. But that day as he stood there thinking about Candide, and earthquakes, the chart, and Candide something struck him. He was no longer a child of unaffected simplicity, and he would no longer shovel Tuesday or no. But, Jared pondered a question quite beyond his experience to answer, “What did Dad get out of it?”

From inside the house, looking out the window, Dad smiled a melancholy smile. No more mid-afternoon nap. And no longer an innocent son.

Note: After writing this, I realized how similar it might sound to someone. What I mean is, I've never read Holes by Louis Sachar, though I thought his Wayside School series was fabulous when I was ten or so. And maybe this isn't anything like Holes. After all, I wouldn't know.