Sticks and Stones

It all started one warm September evening when I noticed a guy running through our community garden with a FILTHY white t-shirt. Filthy for me means dirtier than you would get after a week of backpacking or camping in the same shirt. Dirtier than something in a Tide commercial. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Yucky dirty.

What kind of nutbag, I thought to myself, would wear the same clothes year after year, without washing them, when exercising?

Certainly someone who doesn't share my sense of shame at appearing in public in dirty clothes (although this sense of shame has somewhat lessened after having a baby). And someone who doesn't seem to feel uncomfortable in a shirt that is obviously caked with sweat, body oils and just plain old dirt. I had half a mind to approach him and say, "You should wear clean clothes when you exercise because people might think you're crazy if they see you like that" -- but fortunately, my judgemental side was trumped the feeling of tremendous ennui that comes from the thought of confronting people for how they live their lives. I used to feel compelled to have this sort of confrontation. But now, no.

The next time I saw Mr. Dirt, I glanced down the path while watering our plot, and there he was, this time with a friend. He gaily waved at me. His wave was a little overzealous for the garden's general demeanor; usually people only wave after you've checked out each other's plots and swapped gardening tips. Never mind. I smiled back.

To my amazement, I realized that they had built a makeshift gym in one of the vacant plots at the garden. Certainly the community garden is a little overgrown and there are plenty of unclaimed plots -- plots that have been left to die a slow death with wild tomatoes and plot edging decaying in their midst. So I can see how you would think the space was available. To build a gym. A gym like none you've ever seen.

I saw Big Dirt and Lil Dirt struggling down the path carrying a huge stone. Down the same path where wheelbarrows of manure and wood chips are pushed, the same path where people traipse to take their weeds to the compost pile. Like two modern-day Hercules, these guys were working out by carrying boulders down a garden path. It all made sense, the dirty shirt was from lifting dirty stones as an exercise routine. The lack of shame at being dirty... well, I still haven't figured that one out.

Since I didn't want to wear on my face the look incrudulity that was slowly spreading in my chest, I took a quick gander at the rest of their setup and saw there was also a thick rope slung around a high branch, presumably where they would shimmy up and down to build yet more girth. I turned away.

Later, I took Joel over there and showed him what I had since dubbed "The Twaining Camp."

He said, "It's cheaper than a gym."

Ok, it is cheaper than a gym, but it's still weird. So yesterday, when my former coworker Bethany was visiting, we walked to the garden and I showed her the camp. It's weirder still. Not only are there huge stones for lifting and schlepping to be found. Not only is there a thick rope hanging from the tree. There's a duffel bag full of small rocks. Bags of Sand tied shut. A dead branch that can serve as a pull up bar. And there's a log with two sets of handles screwed into it.

Bethany's said, "Well, it's cheaper than a gym."

I still haven't seen Mr. Dirt and his friend "Lil Dirt" again. Joel strongly rejects the idea that no good is up to in that plot. But I wonder. If you're a UC Davis student or faculty member, you get a free membership to their fabulous gym with all sorts of state-of-the-art weight equipment. And most people in Davis are pretty well off and could afford a gym. Don't you think it's just a tad bit odd to have this "gym" appear in the middle of your community garden? And furthermore, who would think of putting handles on a log?

Well, when I asked around the garden, the word is: Mr. Dirt is a really, really nice, friendly guy. A U.C. Davis student. And as for the gym? He just loves to carry heavy objects.

Go figure.