Digging Holes

  By the time I reached sixth grade, my focus had shifted. Playing at the park didn’t hold the same excitement—it was time for bigger adventures. From my yard, I could see the foothills of the Diamond Bar Ranch, and halfway up the hill, there was what looked like a cave. I had noticed it for a long time, but I had never ventured beyond our neighborhood.

One day, my friend Ronnie and I decided it was time to explore. At the end of the road, we reached the ranch’s barbed-wire fence. We hesitated for a moment before pulling the wires apart just enough to squeeze through. Now the real adventure began.

Running up the hill wasn’t as easy as we thought. Out of breath, we slowed to a trudge and stopped to rest on a pile of big rocks, watching lizards scurry into the crevices. But the cave was still our goal. Leaning forward, we powered through the last stretch of the climb.

When we finally reached it, disappointment hit hard. The "cave" was only 10 or 15 feet deep—just a hole someone had dug into the hill. I had been expecting something out of Tom Sawyer—a deep, winding cavern full of mystery. We hung around for a while anyway before heading home as the sun started to set. Ronnie and I agreed: no one could know about this. Our parents definitely wouldn’t approve.

The next day, inspired by the cave, I decided to dig my own in the backyard. Using Dad’s shovel, I started digging and was surprised at how easy it was. I developed a technique—dig as deep as I could, stand in the hole, then dig next to it until that section was deeper. Back and forth, I worked until I was standing in a pit with only my shoulders above ground. Proud of my masterpiece, I admired my work until Mom called me in for lunch.

"Go wash your hands," she said. I think I was always dirty.

After eating, I went back outside. My hole was deep enough that throwing dirt out was getting too hard, so instead, I started digging a tunnel into the side of it. I got about a shovel’s length in before deciding to take a break.

That’s when my little brother Dennis came outside. I was busy feeding my pet turtle when I went back inside for a bit, leaving him to his own devices.

A little while later, Mom asked, “Where’s Dennis?”

"He’s outside," I answered.

We stepped out to look for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then, faintly, we heard it:

"Help! Help!"

We followed the sound straight to my hole. But we still couldn’t see him.

Dennis had decided to try out my tunnel—except he got stuck. I jumped in and pulled him out.

That was the end of my digging days. I had to fill in my masterpiece, and from that day forward, I wasn’t allowed to dig holes anymore.

Would you love to hear more of these childhood misadventures?