In our grading, we've excavated a mysterious brick walkway that dead ends into nowhere. A long ago forgotten detail covered under two inches of dirt for a generation. The brick is old, the path is old and it looks tre cool. I'm struck with images of being rich, white and languishing in the garden sipping sweet iced tea in the penalizing summer heat while a cadre of white-jacketed servants attend to my needs. Very Martha Stewart.
Of course, the reality is that I'm sweating like a pig in the agonizing heat, coated in grime, back muscles aching from the constant shoveling, I'm drinking marginally cold water in a days old styrofoam cup from Chick-Fil-A, fielding phone calls on an iPhone whose touch screen doesn't work when it's coated in hot sweat, and it seems like everyone and their mother wants me in 37 different directions.
Oh, to be rich and white...
