Cranks My Tractor

Digging around in the dirt, I first saw what seemed to look like the end of an old gun. It excited me; I knew something really interesting must have been there by the stairs where I was now on my hands and knees digging carefully with a stick.

As I picked at the ground and started getting bits of dirt up a little at a time, I saw parts of a gray hat and shirt. It was a military hat, almost like a baseball hat, but squashed down. I kept digging very carefully with my stick.

From time to time, I looked around behind me to make sure no one was watching or sneaking up on me. My heart was thumping.

There seemed to be a boney face and there was hair on the face; it was a mustache. Dirt was caked all in the mustache. This was a man.

Slowly I was forming an opinion of what this man looked like. This fellow seemed to be a soldier. He had what had to be a bedroll draped over one shoulder, a military belt that probably held ammunition and he was still clutching his rifle.

Checking again to make sure that I had not been seen, I looked back down at what I had determined to be a Confederate soldier. I just stared at him. I wanted to ask him how long he had been buried there, but I knew he wouldn’t answer.

The gray uniform was a dead giveaway. After the Battle of Manassas, the Confederate troops started wearing gray and the Union troops started wearing blue. It seems they were shooting folks on their own side, because both sides were wearing similar colors. Maybe they were shooting folks on their own side throughout the whole War Between the States.

That was a long time ago and this soldier had been buried in the ground long enough to have the dirt fill in around him and get rock hard.

When I did get the Confederate soldier completely out of the ground, I knocked all the dirt I could off of him and stuck him in my pocket.

He was plastic soldier, a fine plastic soldier. He could still stand on his own and his features were still very sharp. No one had whacked off his arms, shot him with a BB gun or tried to blow him up with a firecracker.

I must have been five or six; I stayed with my cousin Peggy sometimes when my Mama had to stay late at school. She just lived a block or so up the road. Generally, I would play outside my cousin’s house or in her driveway. On this day, I was out by the back steps digging up a Confederate soldier.

Mama was a history teacher, so I got free history lessons growing up. Daddy was a sailor turned newspaper man. He gave me an appreciation for plastic soldiers and being able to identify ranks, types of ships and world military leaders.

My older brother taught me to shoot at plastic solders with a BB gun and blow them up with firecrackers. It was the closest thing I’ve ever seen to real combat, thank God for that.

This soldier wasn’t going to be shot at or blown up, he was too beautiful. His features were good and he had a nice feel to him, more substantial than most plastic soldiers. His gun was still intact.

Sitting at home, looking at my Confederate soldier, I started to get a sick feeling. I had washed him off and realized how really good he looked with the dirt off of his face.

There was one problem.

The Confederate soldier wasn’t mine. In addition to being a history teacher, my Mama was a missionary and a Sunday school teacher who taught me that taking stuff that wasn’t mine was wrong. Daddy didn’t go for taking anything that you didn’t earn either.

Thus, I had a sick feeling.

It’s kind of interesting how you remember such things. The excitement of uncovering a treasure, your heart pounding under your Garanimal shirt (with matching pants) and then realizing you can’t keep it.

My cousin Peggy would have just given it to me, but I didn’t ask. Asking for something after you have already stuck it in your pocket, is not asking for it. I was too young to go back and explain what I had done. I didn’t ask for parental advice.

I did the only thing a little boy whose parents had taught him right from wrong could do (in the little boy’s opinion). The next day, I stuck the Confederate soldier back in my pocket and took him to my cousin Peggy’s house and buried right where I had found him.

I never dug him up again.

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