This is part of a Thursday series I do for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. This week I chose the If you had made a career out of whatever you were passionate about when you were ten…what would you be doing? choice. Although, I’m not sure I’m totally sticking to topic — I will explain why I believe I’m not doing what I was passionate about when I was ten. And it’s all my parents fault. Of course.
When I was 10 years old, I thought being an archaeologist would be the coolest thing ever.
I’d learned how to spell it, which seemed like a good start.
I’m not really sure what got me started with my archaeological obsession, but my previous career choice was to be the next Bob Barker, so I’m thinking maybe my parents were pleased with new found, science-based path.
I convinced my little sister and my best friend, Hillary, that being an archaeologist would be awesome. As good little sisters and best friends often do, they completely jumped on board.
Especially when I suggested that we should “practice.”
By digging a huge hole in my backyard.
Every day after school, I would go to the backyard to continue my dig. I’d picked a good spot near our fence, kind of out of the way, where it wouldn’t really bother anyone.
Like my mom and dad.
I was pleased as pie when I discovered *gasp* a piece of tile! Bathroom tile! That didn’t match any bathroom tiles in my house! Or Hillary’s house!
Could’ve been a Native American bathroom tile!
Or a dinosaur’s bathroom tile!
Once I’d exhausted that research — I think I even knocked on my neighbor’s door and asked to use their bathroom to check if it was a match — I continued with my dig.
The hole got big. It was pretty wide. My guess is that it was about 4 feet by 2 feet and about 4 feet deep.
I could be exaggerating, but I don’t think so.
I mean, Rachel, Hillary and I were digging at this same hole for days.
But sadly, after weeks of digging, tragedy struck our household.
My mother told us that our dog, Pepper, had died of a heart attack.
Peacefully. In her sleep.
Now that I’m older, this sounds suspect.
But that’s what she said and we believed her.
I was a dope.
As if the mourning of Pepper wasn’t sad enough, my parents then turned my archaeological dig — my future scientific career — into a grave.
They buried Pepper in my hole.
The hole that had once led us to the untraceable tile, was now my dog’s grave.
I truly believe that it wasn’t my lack of science skills that kept me from an awesome career in archaeology.
It was the traumatic realization that one person’s archeological dig is another person’s pet cemetery.