Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Dirt
Charles Conrad Abbott (1843-1919), The Ramblers of an Idler (Philadelphia: George W. Jacobs & Co., 1906), pp. 159-160:
Related post: The Dark Fat Earth.
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The tirade against dirt so constantly heard is probably the most tiresome item of the stock in trade of housekeepers' communications. Poor dirt! Pulverized rock, tried by frost, purified by fire, washed by the rain and dried by the innocent sunshine, and yet more roundly abused than anything else in Nature. Thank Goodness, I love the dirt! Love to walk on it, to play in it; yes, to burrow waist-deep in it and, emerging into the light of day, feel that I am not an unfit object for the blessed sun to see. Better still, I am duly thankful that I am comparatively free from the restraints of those habitations where a speck of dirt is held in as great horror as a crime.Abbott was an archaeologist, so his words "to burrow waist-deep in it" aren't just hyperbole.
Related post: The Dark Fat Earth.
