Thursday, May 31, 2007

On geological theory

There are many reasons that nothing grows in my yard but weeds. Most of those reasons can be combined into one statement: I suck. One of those reasons, though, is completely out of my control: my soil. As in, I have none. What I do have is sand - bucket load upon sandcastle-building bucket load. Not sandy soil; not even soily sand. Just. Plain. Sand. With some grass seed thrown on top. And a kick ass fault line right beneath.

It is that very fault line, if you believe those crazy scientists, that's responsible for my sand. Long, long ago, this happy little hill was underwater; part of Puget Sound instead of overlooking it. And then, in a great clash of opposing plates, Admiral hill burst out of the ocean like my old friend Mark burst out of the closet: loudly, triumphantly, and with disco playing in the background. So basically what I've got is beachfront land without all that pesky ocean and property value to go with it.

That's one theory, anyway. But tonight after returning from the (real) beach, I stood on my front porch like generations of mothers before me, and shook an entire dune out of The Kid's clothes. I suspect that the pockets of little boys - not glaciers, rivers, wind, volcanoes, or shifting plates - are to blame for unexplained sand, rock, and potato bug migrations across the globe.

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