A Hole to China

Matt was probably seven years old, and I was nine when we decided to dig the hole underneath the Chestnut tree off the corner of the kitchen at 105 South Cook Street. The dirt was fairly soft there as it rarely was trod upon, thanks to the spiny Chestnut hulls that would collect in the vicinity and presented a mine field of thorny irritation to be avoided at all cost when barefoot. The soil was covered with a thick layer of deadfall from the trees that shaded the length of the house and that kept the soil damp and workable by young hands devoid of adolescent strength but filled with dreams.

We had discovered the potential for a deep excavation while digging for earthworms prior to a fishing excursion out to Pop-Pop’s cabin, a quaint structure on Bullard’s Mill Pond about six miles north of Bennettsville that my Grandfather, WP Sandifer owned. We spent many hours fishing for Bream, Crappie and Blue Gills from the dam at the mill pond, and digging bait was a ritual for the three of us boys. Prior to loading up the essentials for a fishing trip we would dig bait; big fat earthworms that we pulled from the topsoil found underneath leaves under a hedge, and 105 South Cook Street offered a veritable cornucopia of vermiform fruit.

Wallace had claimed the row of hedges that separated our yard from Mr Cope’s house next door so Matt and I rounded the corner of the house and were picking our way through the booby-trapped passage of the Chestnut tree when he decided to try and dig for worms at the base of the tree where the accumulation of decaying leaves contributed to a nice, loamy topsoil and held in the moisture which made the location prime for fat, juicy nightcrawlers. He plunged the little spade from the set he had received on his third birthday that was perfect for the task of bait digging into the Earth and immediately noticed the ease at which the spade turned the dirt, and somewhere in the back of Matt’s head…the same head that was filled with dreams that were in need of flying out…he surmised that this would be the ideal spot for an excavation rivaled only by the great works of the ancients of Egypt or the Byzantine Empire. After plucking a few choice nightcrawlers out of the detritus of decaying foliage and depositing them into the pail adorned with Seahorses and Octopi we all piled in the old Pontiac station wagon and struck out for Pop Pop’s cabin while the idea of digging a hole all the way to China was row-row-rowing around Matt’s head.

We spent a nice day out at Pop-Pop’s cabin and soon had a stringer filled with Bluegill and Bream to take come and clean. We loaded up and headed back into town, anxious to get the fish scaled, cleaned and into the hot oil of the big cast iron pan Daddy used to fry fish with. The task of scaling and cleaning was one that Daddy performed with the ease of an ancient potter throwing cups upon the wheel. He would set up “stations” on an old folding table in the back yard…one for scaling, one for washing and one for cutting. Each of us would take a position around the table and we would scale the fish with old spoons as Daddy felt that the toothed scaling tools altered the composition of the skin underneath the scales, therefore compromising the taste. Once the catch of the day had been scaled, they went into a pot of water to await Daddy’s knife, and as quickly as we tossed the fish in he would scoop them out and with the swiftness of a line chef and the skill of a surgeon He would make a few quick cuts and toss the now-prepared fish into yet another pot of water which was Nolan Wallace Johnson’s top-secret special ingredient…pond water! He swore it added “authentic” flavor and if one had ever sampled Nolan Wallace “Jackie” Johnson’s fried Bream they would agree that it adds a little “kick”.

Matt had other intentions, and didn’t seem very focused on his task of washing the scales off the table but rather kept staring over at the Chestnut tree. As soon as the last Crappie found itself in the yellow five-gallon bucket of Bullard’s Mill Pond water, that aqua vitae that doth flow downstream to nourish the mystical, healing powers of the Burnt Factory Mill pond; and spills out as Crooked Creek, the sacred maritime route used by the ancients of Marlboro to pursue their distillations of fermented grains Matt hied over to the Chestnut tree, and commenced a furious excavation of soil unseen since the days of the construction of the Saint Lawrence Seaway or even the Panama Canal. Dirt flew from the small spade as he ramped up his efforts upon reaching more compacted soil and the curious aroma of fresh earth hung heavily over the scene of his project. Matt started cutting roots with the tip of the spade and I sped off to the shop to get a shovel to join in, as this was turning out to have potential!

I returned with a shovel and joined in the fun, turning earth and doing what seven-year-old boys do best and that is to get as grubby as possible and track said grubbiness all over the house much to the chagrin of their Mothers. Having a couple of years of maturity, an Earthmoving implement 125% larger than the spade Matt was using and working together we soon had a nicely carved canyon that was roughly four feet by eight feet; and was about 18 inches deep. Stepping out, we whirled around and looked lovingly at the scale of the project we had commenced…it was huge! We had accumulated a large pile of displaced soil so a large sheet of plastic from Daddy’s shop was draped upon the pile and weighted with a few bricks to keep it from washing into mud should a rain fall.

It had gotten late and Daddy had the oil hot and ready for the “Brizzlies” as he termed the Bream that had been coated up in corn meal by shaking the fish in a paper grocery bag, so we abandoned the hole to watch the process of frying the fish and waiting for the Hush Puppies that came at the end. Daddy would reach in the grocery bag, fish out two fat Bream and tap them together to shake off excess cornmeal before laying them gingerly in the oil heated to 380 degrees Fahrenheit and left them until they started floating. After only a few minutes he would pull them from the oil and place them on a paper plate lined with paper towels and slide the plate filled with fish inside a doubled grocery bag and fold the top over twice. He repeated the process until the fish was all fried. Whatever cornmeal remained from the coating process was recycled into a thick corn batter and fried in the hot grease, and we always got to sample a few from the first batch to make sure they are fit for consumption. As always, there were a few lumps of fried cornmeal laying out in wait for the three of us boys and a couple big lumps “For the dogs” as Daddy always explained. We devoured our greasy treats and paraded in the kitchen and sat down to a Johnson family feast worthy of royalty. You could always tell when Mama and Daddy were content with the meal and tickled with the situation as Daddy would remark “Wonder what the poor folk are eatin’ tonight?” and Mama would reply “Truffles, Darling!” This night was no exception and both parents were clearly delighted in the fine meal provided in part by all and the lesson learned, that through God all things are possible and in Him we have life eternal. His grace was indeed sufficient for the five of us.

After the smiles shared, the laughter reverberated and the aroma abated we cleaned up after the meal and Daddy went outside to break down the fish frying setup and drain the hot grease into a pail to be cooled, filtered and stored in case an impromptu fish fry was to break out. The Johnsons were lovers of the Piscatorial arts and there seemed to always be an endless supply of fish in dire need of consumption lest it “go bad”…a fate inexcusable in the eyes of the Patriarch of the Johnson family, George Whitfield Johnson. GW “Skipper” Johnson was a true native of the red clay soil and twining vines of kudzu that fill the rocky state of Alabama and dared not let the tender, delectable flesh of the fish be lost as rubbish.

As Daddy carefully poured off the hot oil and Wallace, Matt and I broke down the folding table and put away tools of fish preparation. Wallace wanted to be his typical bossy self and command the two of us around but Matt and I weren’t interested in his boastfulness as our attention was with the hole, and we shrugged off his barking with nonchalance. We slipped in the house and spent the remainder of the evening making elaborate plans for our arrival in China. Matt was convinced…thanks to a tale he had heard…that we could dig clear down to China and make new friends on the other side of the world. He couldn’t shake the thought of such a feat, and neither could I. When sleep finally found us, it was filled with dreams of foreign lands and strange tongues.

The following morning found Matt and I out of the house at sunrise and busily shoveling dirt, the uncovered spoil pile growing larger as the light filtered through the prisms of the leaves and was broken into colors that are incapable of description. A breakfast of Franken Berry had provided the caloric needs to fuel two dirt slinging machines into action, and by ten that morning the hole had maintained the four foot by eight foot dimension, but the depth was now at around three feet deep. Matt’s seven year-old frame was at shoulder depth when Lee Carmichael and Hartwell Baker showed up, and the depth of the excavation impressed them greatly. They both joined in the effort to remove as much dirt as possible, and remove dirt they did!

It was approaching noon when Mama decided to peek out the window to check on us and to let us know lunch would be ready soon when she put down her Southern Living magazine and walked over to the kitchen window beside the sink. She witnessed a scene that left her reeling in horror: The hole was so deep Matt’s head was no longer visible and the only clue he was in there was the sight of the tip of his spade flinging dirt over the side. Dear old Moms rushed out the back door in a panic, rounding the corner of the house at full speed crying “Boys! Boys! Stop right now!” She was convinced that the excavation would collapse and poor little Matthew would be engulfed, and ordered a stop to the proceedings to take effect immediately. Her instruction was met with howls of protest, as our labor would go unrewarded.

Now, Sharon Sandifer Johnson had a cunning way of motivating three young boys and knew how to bolster a sense of adventure through youthful misdirection of attention and quickly put that superpower to use. She spied a shipping crate that Daddy had brought home with the intention of turning it into yet another storage cabinet for his shop and supposed that it would fit in the hole; and if we could drag it over and fit it in the hole we could keep the hole. We agreed that her idea was indeed a good one, and we parted in a truce of satisfaction and before she had let the screen door of the back porch slam the four of us had dragged the crate halfway across the yard.

It fit the hole perfectly! We had a new spot that seemed agreeable to all: Mama didn’t have to fret over the possibility of engulfment and our efforts were rewarded with the biggest hole any of us had ever seen. As I enjoyed the fruit of our labor I spied the sheet of plastic and noticed it would drape perfectly inside the crate, and the garden hose would reach from the spigot Daddy installed for the purpose of cleaning fish, and we had that crate lined with the plastic and halfway filled with water when our jubilance was interrupted by a series of raps on the kitchen window. Looking up, there was Mama, filling the window in an arms crossed posture with “that” look on her face. She held a grim visage for a moment, then mouthed “Not At All!” before appearing at the hole and putting an end to our pursuit. We learned a valuable lesson that day…a kid’s pail isn’t worth a durn for bailing water! Have a Rice day, y’all!