Stories from Scott

“Is this deep enough?” I asked.

“A little deeper. Better to be sure,” she replied.

A few more shovelfuls and I was done.

“Turn the head to the side. It will be flatter that way. You won’t have to shovel more,” she said with confidence.

She was right. She was the expert.

I filled the shallow ditch with the remaining bones and covered them with dirt.

“How’s that?” I said with pride.

“It looks good. Spread the leaves around and make it look natural. I can see the foot.”

I made the foot disappear and spread more leaves around.

“It looks really good. How does mine look? You just need to make it part of the surroundings” she said presenting with her hands and surveying her own work.

She instructed me to walk down the trail a bit and look at the site. She was right, I couldn’t tell there were any graves.

It was a picture-perfect fall afternoon. Seventy degrees. Sunny. A soft breeze. You couldn’t ask for a nicer fall day. It felt good to be outside—especially in the woods.

There is something about being in the woods. I think it’s the smell. The smell of the trees. Bushes. Grass. The dirt. The earth. All of it. It feels like it’s where you belong. After being stuck inside, day after day after day, going into the woods is almost a shock to the senses.

It’s sad, isn’t it? It shouldn’t feel that way.

This brought me back to a childhood memory. It was a day just like today. It might have been summer though. It was a long time ago. In the 1970s. The kids today call it the late 1900s. That always stings when I hear it. Out with the old, in with the new, I suppose.

I was about seven or eight. I went with my grandfather and uncle to dig a grave. It was a proper grave. They dug graves for the local cemetery. It was a small town, and not a lot of business, fortunately. I’m not sure how they came into that line of work.

I remember being excited to go with them. How cool is that—to dig a grave at that age? The bragging rights that come with such an adventure.

Back then they did it the old-fashioned way, with shovels. It’s a lot of work to dig a proper grave with shovels. It takes almost a full day for two grown men. We brought a jug of water and packed sandwiches. It was that kind of work.

I had thought it would be cool and creepy to dig a grave in a graveyard. But it wasn’t. Maybe at night it would have been.

Being in a cemetery during the day, as the hole takes shape, it becomes… I’m not sure what the right word is. Reverent? You realize a person will be lowered into that hole. No longer living. The priest presiding over the ceremony. The family and friends gathered. It’s a somber affair.

Still, it was a nice day, and I got to spend time with my grandfather and uncle. They both smoked pipes. I always loved the smell of pipe smoke. There were a lot of breaks, so a lot of pipe aroma.

I helped dig for a while—until it got too deep for me to throw the dirt out of the hole.

When we finished, it was a tight rectangular hole. A grave fit for a church burial. They were good. There was a quiet dignity in the work. It was a proper grave.

Not like what I was doing now in the woods.

There was no dignity in this. Quick and dirty. Find a dip in the ground behind a rock or fallen tree. Scrape out a shallow ditch, just deep enough. No dignity in it. No respect.

“What do you think? Look good?” I asked her again.

“I think that will do. Good job. Throw that soda can over that one. Make it look messy. Some branches too.”

I grabbed the shovels, and we started to head back to the parking lot. It was a nice day. I think we were both in good moods.

“Where do you want to eat?” I asked.

“Let’s eat at our sandwich place. We can eat outside there,” I answered for her.

“Yes! It’s just gorgeous out today,” she said.

We held hands as we walked.

“I think your class is going to have a lot of fun with this,” I told her.

“They do every year,” she agreed. “Everyone loves forensics”.