My mother often said we’ve all got to eat a pound of dirt in our lives. I always assumed she was referring, well, to dirt – actual earth or anything else not normally considered to be edible – and that the reasoning was two-fold: first, we can’t avoid eating certain things we would rather not, and secondly, somehow eating the uneatable is good for us.
It toughens us up to chow down something we’d never find on any restaurant’s menu or a supperplate carefully decked out by a loving mother.
Like bugs, for example. Having a bad habit of not closing my mouth when I’m working or walking, I can’t begin to count the number of insects that have ended their days (or hours) wriggling down my throat. I bet I’ve swallowed 10 this summer alone.
But lately, I’ve been wondering whether Mom’s dirt prescription could also have been a metaphor for some other unpleasant things we have to swallow as we trod along on our earthly journey. Things such as indignities. Those daily tests of our maturity that are so freely handed out by the rude and insensitive.
We always have a choice. Do we grab the brute by the throat and administer a little attitude adjustment or do we keep our cool and walk away seething?
If a pound of this kind of dirt is what I need to eat in my lifetime, then I’d say I’m approaching 14, 15 ounces, maybe. An ounce more, or so, and I’ll be over the top. What then?
Just recently, I was standing in line at a coffee shop to get my morning muffin-to-go when a till opened up, a customer having just left. However, the server also left her place, so I was a bit hesitant as to which of the two cash registers to approach – the one that was staffed, or the one that wasn’t. He who hesitates gets stabbed in the back by the bony finger of an older guy with an attitude, I guess, because sure enough, there was the end of somebody else’s digit digging into my shoulder. When I turned, he motioned me, with a disgusted look and wave of his dismissive hand, to head to the till where no server was standing.
Not having woken up in the greatest of moods, my feeble hold on a tenuous serenity almost gave way, but I knew it would not be in my best interest to get kicked out of this great muffin-dispensing shop, so I suffered the shove and let it go.
Then last week, a bit more mud arrived, delivered free of charge by a young man who rang my doorbell at 7 p.m.
“How are you tonight?” chirped the tall, smiling youth in a long black overcoat, clipboard in hand, and some sort of badge bearing his photo pinned to his lapel.
“Fine,” I said. “Whaddya got?”
What followed was a brief blah blah blah about an offer to cap rising energy costs by signing up for a fixed rate, and then the fellow asked me to go get my latest hydro bill so he could see what I was paying.
“No, I’m not going to do that,” I said.
“What, you’re happy with your rates?”
“Yes,” I said. (I don’t know whether or not I’m happy but it sure wasn’t any of his business).
“So, you don’t mind paying higher rates for hydro if it goes way up?” said the sneering one.
“No I don’t,” I said. While this was a lie, I figured I might as well fight sarcasm with sarcasm.
It didn’t work.
“Another stupid person,” said the lad, as he turned in disgust, and headed down my steps, back out into the rain.
I chewed on this new snack of soil for a while and then kind of sorted it out. There were two guys on stage in this little play. Who was really the stupid one? The guy in the warm house enjoying an evening with his family (or trying to) or the guy tromping door to door through the rain, harassing strangers to see their private bills and calling them names when they refuse?
Not long ago, I got a phone call from a stranger with an offer I couldn’t refuse. I told the guy I would check with my wife and that he should call back. I didn’t check with my wife and surprise, surprise, the guy called back. I told him I hadn’t checked with my wife yet.
“What the hell?” said the salesman. “You can’t make a decision without your wife?”
If real dirt, ingested over a lifetime, builds up your immune system and helps you keep your health, then the other kind helps build character, I guess.
But sometimes I wish Mom were here to tell me what to do once the entire pound has been swallowed.
©2016 Jim Hagarty
