Dirt Puffs Like Smoke

When I was a little girl, I liked to go on wandering walks in the summertime. I remember walking down a prairie road, near the farm. It was a dirt track, milled to fine powder by the years of usage by trucks, pickups, and tractors. I was bare foot, my chubby and dusty feet plopping down on the road. Each step raised up a puff of dust. I thought it looked like the smoke of the cigarettes most adults smoked in the 50s. I liked that. It made me laugh because it looked funny.

The sun beat down on the road, making the fine dirt warm and friendly. The only sounds I heard were buzzing insects, meadowlarks singing, the wind in the grass, and the scuffling of unseen skittering mice, voles and gophers. There were shelterbelts of trees nearby, with occasional plum thickets, which we mined for winter time jam. Wild shrub rose bushes fed bees, along with the alfalfa fields nearby.

It was a fascinating place for me, and a fascinating time. I don’t remember thinking of anything except where I was, and what my senses were experiencing in that moment. There were bugs to examine, ant marches to watch, prints of birds and small mammals in the dirt.

Such perfect dirt brought out my creative side. It was great for drawing pictures with my fingers. It felt wonderfully soft to lie down on too. The warmth of the dirt, heated by the sun, was wonderful. I’m sure I slept sometimes too. I’m equally sure that Mom might have needed to hunt for me. Certainly that didn’t make her happy!

Dirt Puffs times were some of the best.