This is the house where I (nearly) dug a hole to China
Just outside the back porch, not the front porch or the side porch. But just to the left of the creaky wooden steps leading from the back porch was where I (nearly) dug the hole to China.
Because for years, every time I visited my Grandpa and Grandma Atwood, nearly as soon as the cloud of gravel dust passed away from our car, I would run to the tool shed, grab a shovel and a pair of my Grandpa’s work gloves, and I would set out to work on my hole.
I would dig and dig and dig. And then have some butter brickle ice cream with my Grandpa, and dig some more.
And my grandparents never once filled in the hole, or worried about what the neighbors would say about the hole, or be concerned that another farmer would fall in the hole and sue them.
They just let me dig the hole. To (nearly) China.
God – help me be smart like my grandparents. Smart enough to know when a hole to (nearly) China is not just a hole, but a dream.