No. 2
I Was Dumped
Wednesday, October 26, 1910
To Mother, Tower of Ivory,
Today the baby crossed over a milestone. I pulled him out of the view of the father and the other men working on the front porch steps and coming soon flower beds with their exciting focus on display, dumping gray rock to sleep with reverence, aiming to protect the flowers, in God’s timing, when they care to bloom.
In my arms today a poor baby could not talk to his mother, but was dealing with a stranger, or what seemed to be a stranger, even though I had been babysitting him for months now and we did get along just fine in the past. When I turned away from the mess the guys were making, the baby quickly turned back to study the men more, and leaned harder in that direction, but I walked way, and since I was carrying him, we both turned.
The babe wanted to work.
I handed him one of his playthings, a block and I said, “Look, and you have your tools,” and he took it out of my hands. Tossed it on the grass.
I picked up a stick. A good size. Appropriate for his station in life.
He reached for it but only to throw it down harder than the block.
He looked down. He knew I was looking at him, but he kept looking down at that stupid stick. He had absolutely no interest in helping me, in elevating me so that I might once again correct him.
So, next I did what any good caregiver does: I returned to the danger. Inside the wheelbarrow I found a pocket for an imaginary pillow and placed him there, against the rock and dirt.
What comfort from the rock. Now he looked at me but seemed to understand the risk. He promised me not to eat the rocks, or so I imagined, and I did not for one minute take my eyes off this work, my work.
His view was good. Mine was better. When it was time for the men to get another load, they smiled at him. I snatched him up, only temporarily, keeping him up high so he could see their dumping, raking, smoking, jarring, spitting of chew, and other general improvements of the landscape.
That’s enough dumping for now, Dear Mother, I see my place now.
Copyright 2026 Christine Friesel
