July 1975
I step on the shovel blade and push down with all my weight. The scent of musty earth fills my nostrils as I turn the clod of moist dirt — “Richest dirt in the world,” my dad is fond of saying. As I crumble the clammy soil in my hand, I think, If it’s so rich, why are we so poor?
I pull a huge night crawler from the clod and toss him into the margarine container my mom gave me. We eat tons of the butter substitute because “it’s healthier for you,” she says. Sweat drips from my forehead even in the cool of the dark woods, and I dream of another place, far away from this Louisiana heat. I’m digging worms because I know they will work well as bait tonight during this full moon, even though catfish rely on their sense of smell, not eyesight, to find food in the murky water. Everything is murky in their world, moon or no moon.
