Evil Lies Beneath

I was digging in my cellar this weekend, finishing what needed to be dug out to allow the plumbing to go in. I’d cleaned out the trenches and only needed to dig the hole for the ejector, and I’d be done. I squared my shoulders, took a good grip on the shovel, and set to work.

The first strike of the shovel yielded a painful shock to my wrists, as I’d made full contact with a rock, hidden just below the surface of the dirt. I adjusted the angle of the shovel and worked the offending obstacle out of place. My second attempt yielded the same level of success, and I was faced once again with an offending piece of stone. My third, fourth, fifth (you get the idea) attempts were just as fruitless. There were rocks, rocks, and more rocks. And they weren’t all that big, either. Many of them were only 4 or 6 inches across, but they were all packed together so tightly that even hitting just one with the shovel would prevent it’s forward motion, completely. Ever try to shovel a pile of rocks? No? Give it a try. Go find about a thousand rocks, stack them into a nice pile, and then try sticking a shovel into the pile and moving them. Good luck! That’s what I was dealing with. Where the F did all these rocks come from?? Who’s sick idea of a joke was this? My mind began to ponder this…

It was right around this time that something from the very back of my memory wriggled free of the dust and cobwebs, and began to work it’s way to the front of my consciousness. It was what you’d call one of those old wives’ tales. A story told to little tykes at bedtime, to make sure they stayed quiet and stayed in their beds. A story about days long past, when the earth was young. The settlers were just beginning to…well…settle. They were clearing the land and making a way of life for themselves and their families. They were working their way inland, slowly spreading from the seaside townships they’d established upon their arrival. Things were going well for them…going well…until they came to what is now called…Walpole.

When they first came upon this area, they fell in love with it’s charm and serenity. They agreed to settle here and create a bit of a…settlement. The local Indians visited them and advised the people that they should look elsewhere for a place to live. They advised them that this place, this place that the Indians called “Walpole”, would not welcome anyone. Even the Indians had not lived in this spot, as they said the ground was unfriendly. The settlers chose not to believe these stories and went about the task of building homes and meeting houses and everything else that goes into the making of a town.

But as the town slowly began to take shape, the stories began popping up amongst the settlers. Stories of hardship whenever someone tried to delve into the ground. Be it spade, hoe or just a rake, inevitably, there would be rocks to be found. And not simple rocks, these things would seem to appear where there was only mere dirt a minute earlier. The ground would seem loose and willing (my kind of dirt), but as soon as it was…penetrated (Hey, just where is this story going??), the rocks would suddenly be there. And they would seem to cling to each other, forming a bond which neither man nor tool could overcome.

People then began to talk - some even saying that the ground was indeed unfriendly, as the Indians had warned of. Some went so far as to call the ground haunted. They sent their wisest elder to seek out the Indians and ask them about the troubles they were having. The elder returned, and he was terrified. He told the settlers that the Indians had told him what the name “Walpole” actually meant. They clamored to hear the explanation, and when he told them, some dropped to the ground in sheer terror, some ran screaming into the night, still others fell silent, their mouths agape in horror. For you see; “Walpole”, means “Land of incredible beauty which has lots of tasty wildlife which is good for hunting and eating and has an abundance of rain - but not so much that your yard turns to mud - and which also comes with lots of pretty flowers but the down side is that it’s haunted by rocks that are evil”.

An emergency meeting was called and everyone assembled to figure out how to overcome this terrible news. The settlers agreed to banish them, banish the rocks. With great determination and sheer will, they dug up every single rock in the entire area and buried them deep in a giant pit which had been dug for the occasion. They filled the pit in and sprinkled holy water over it, said many prayers and asked all the surrounding priests to come and bless the pit.

Time went by and the settlers began to breathe easier. There were no more problems with rocks. The ground was rich and fertile, times were good again, and everyone was happy. The years passed by, prosperous and uneventful.

Having remembered this tale, I decided to swing down to the local library and do some research. Turns out that in roughly 1954, the landowner at what is now known as 640 South St, decided to build a house. A nice house; a ranch. Luckily for him, the ground was pitched in such a way that he only had to do a little clearing of land (didn‘t have to dig too deeply). He poured the foundation and then backfilled against the front side of it. This gave an entrance level which was even with the street in front, but which gave him almost a two level effect in the back yard (not to mention the added benefit of a walk-in basement door). And he was happy.

Making note of the latitude and longitude of my exact location, I dug further back into history, all the way back to the earliest records of the first settlers to arrive here. And I discovered two things;

A) My house was built directly on top of that pit. That pit holding those stupid f’ing evil rocks.

B) This kind of nonsense is what I come up with when I’m digging holes in my basement and my mind is left alone to wander aimlessly for hours. Have pity on me.