I pushed a sign deep into the ground and looked at the kids gathering up the street with

thinly veiled satisfaction.

Keep off the dirt.

I'd seen the way their eyes gleamed when the truck had come to deliver it and decided

on a preemptive strike.

At all pile of filled dirt was irresistible for a small child and I needed as much of

this dirt from my project as possible.

When it scattered all over the yard would make that difficult and I needed to post

signs before the neighborhood route has got any ideas.

I went back inside then, not wanting to feel questions about my dirt.

Sitting in my easy chair, pretending to watch TV, I could see them gathering around to

look at the sign.

They hung good over the handlebars of the ten speeds and look dubiously at the sign I'd

stuck in the mountain of dirt in the front yard.

The sign was pretty straightforward, but I wouldn't put it past these kids to find

a loophole.

They knew me as the cool neighbour, the single guy who gave up full-size cannibars and

Halloween and sometimes played baseball in the street with them.

The guy who drank on his front porch and sometimes let them fish in my canal if it was

okay with their parents.

On some things however, they knew that I was unbending and that it wouldn't do to argue.

They all looked up when I came out on the front porch to lean against the rail and look

...