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Russell Baxter stabbed at the earth with an old rusted shovel. This was more work than he had expected and more work than
he wanted to be doing. But promises had been made and promises must be kept.
He gave the shovel a good push. Hitting a stone, it stopped. Twisting the shovel's weathered wooden handle he worked the stone
loose. Once it was loose he used the tip of the shovel to roll the stone behind him, where a pile was accumulating.
"Look at the size of this one," he called over his shoulder. He was yelling to his sons, playing in the yard behind him. He was trying
to get them at least a little interested in what he was doing. It was, after all, for them.
He was digging a circular hole twenty-two feet in diameter and about eight inches deep in his back lawn. This was to be the base
for a much anticipated above ground pool. Anticipated more by his family than by him. Russell wasn't much of a swimmer but the
boys were. When the idea had first been broached he had no problem with it, with this one proviso - he was not installing it. He
wanted nothing to do with that. He had helped install pools before and had no desire to do it again.
When the time came his wife had called and arranged for the installation. A two week wait. Those weeks turned into a month and
that month had turned into two. The boys were already out of school for the summer and all they had to show for their patience
was a twenty-two foot orange circle sprayed on their yard.
He had already hauled the four tons of sand required for the installation in his truck and emptied it by hand. Now, here he was
swinging a pick axe and hoisting a shovel. Now, he was digging the hole.
"What is it," his son Branson asked. At six years old he was the younger of the two boys.
"It's a rock," Russell said, "What did you expect?"
"I don't know."
"Did you find anything else," Russell Jr. asked. He was two years older than Branson.
The two of them were on the swing set across the yard. Russell paused to watch them rising and falling, legs pumping in an effort
to rise as high as possible. Russell envied them - just swinging for the sake of it, enjoying the simple pleasure of being in motion.
Those were the days. He couldn’t begin to count the hours he and his friends had spent on swing sets here in this very
neighborhood so many summers ago.
Things had changed since then.
It was still a great little neighborhood but where Russell had a half dozen friends in his own age group right there on his block, his
boys had none. It made it hard to keep them occupied at times. The pool was in part an answer to that.
"Did you Dad?" Russell Jr. asked.
In his reverie Russell had failed to answer his son’s question.
"No," he said, "Not really. Just some more junk."
"What kind of junk?"
"Junk junk, that's what kind of junk. Rusty, dirty, grungy junk."
When Russell had first begun digging the day before the boys were right there beside him, testing their youth with pick and shovel
and watching him work. But, being boys, their attention soon wandered taking their bodies along. They only came back when he
dug up something of interest.
Initially, every bit of plastic or metal was treated like a relic, every shard of glass analyzed. There had been some broken toy parts,
nails, tile shards and rusted hinges. The best they had done so far was a small bottle. Russell recognized as being from a chemistry
set he had received for Christmas one year. He must have been twelve years old at the time, maybe younger - say eleven or even
ten years old. He could remember playing with it in the basement by himself. The basement was unfinished and it was agreed he
could do the least damage there.
As they cleaned the bottle Russell explained to the boys what it was and where it had come from. They were duly unimpressed.
"What could you do with the chemistry set," Russ Jr. had asked and he had explained.
"Did you play with your Dad with it," Branson asked.
"Yeah. Sure," he answered automatically. Later that night looking at the bottle and thinking about it he wasn't so sure.
"I must have," he thought, trying to recall that Christmas morning.
"I must have," he thought, imagining the tiny test tubes in their rack and the small scale used to weigh each portion of chemical
before dropping it into a beaker.
"He must have helped me with the alcohol lamp," he told himself.
Staring into the small bottle he had unearthed Russell was sure they had played with it together; playing with all the toys he received
was a Christmas day tradition with his father. He couldn't see it like he could see himself playing in the basement but he was sure
they had, at least on that one day.
"Yeah. Sure," he answered automatically when asked, "We played with it together."

"Hey, look at this," Russell called to his sons, now busy playing with action figures in the piles of dirt he had unearthed. The pick
had grabbed some chain buried in the ground. Giving it a cursory tug he could see it was a long piece. He waited for the boys to
get there before pulling it completely out of the ground.
"What is it," Branson asked as soon as he was at his side.
"A piece of old chain. I don't know how old it is."
"Let me pull it out," Russ Jr. said, seeing it was still buried.
"Sure."
"Oh," Branson pouted, mad at himself for not thinking of it first.
"Both of you pull it out," Russell said, adding, "We don't know how deep it goes."
Standing back, he watched as the two of them wrapped their small hands around the handle of the pick then pulled. The chain
pulled up, freeing itself and spraying dirt back on them. They laughed then pulled again. This time it came completely free. Russell
recognized it as a dog's leash and told the boys so.
"What would that be doing here," Branson asked.
"Well, when I was young - about your age - we had a dog that we kept back here. This leash probably got lost back here and then
got buried over the years," he speculated.
"That was a long time ago wasn't it," Russ Jr. teased.
His father agreed.
“That was a long time ago.”

While Branson played with the chain, Russ Jr. wandered to the pile of accumulated junk.
"Why is all this stuff here?"
"What do you mean, buddy?"
"Why is it all buried here?"
"Well, like I said that leash is probably here because this is where we kept Randy - that was the dog's name. The rest of this stuff -
most of it - is here because years ago my grandfather had a small construction company and this area here was next to the garage,
which was right there," he explained, pointing out roughly where the garage had stood. "So, when they would finish a job they
would put a lot of the extra stuff here and then maybe use it on the next job. I guess a lot of the small stuff just got lost here.
That's why there's nails and tiles and all these other things we're finding."
"Did your dad live here too?"
"He grew up here," Russell said, "Just like you and your brother. Just like me."
Three generations in a home that had been built by a
great-grandfather he never knew. Not many people he knew still lived in a family home like he did. Presently, they struggled to keep
it but he was glad they did.
"What did he do?"
"Well, most of his life he worked for his father in construction, you know, building things."
Russell still liked to think of his father that way, tanned and strong, raising cinder block walls, straight and true, or sinking nails
with three swings of his blue handled hammer. To this day Russell hadn't mastered that.
"When I was your age," he said, "I used to love going out on jobs with my father and help out and hang around with the guys on
the work crews."
"What did he build?"
"A lot of things,... Gas Stations and houses and things. He did a lot of remodeling as well. You know, fixing up people's homes.
You know that gas station next to the convenience store on your way to school? He built
that. I remember the huge hole they dug to put the gas tanks in the ground. And down the other way, across from..."
"There's no gas station next to the store," Russ Jr. interrupted.
Russell stopped and thought a moment. The boy was right. That service station had long since been converted to a used car lot and
the structure itself altered so much it now looked nothing like the Sun Oil Company station it had been.
Russ Jr. spoke up again.
"So your dad built a lot of things?"
"Yeah, a lot of things." Before he stopped trying, Russell said to himself. Before he stopped caring.
"Hey Dad, when are you going to chop the root out," Branson asked. "Can I help?"
Branson kicked the toe of his sneaker along the edge of a large root that showed through the grass within what was left of the
orange circle. Russell was nearly there. It looked like more work than he wanted to do but promises had been made and promises
must be kept.
"I'll dig that out next buddy, then the two of you can have a go at it."
"Today?"
"Yeah," he said, "I should get that far today."

Russ Jr. and Branson had gone back to their play and Russell had labored on, nearly clearing the dirt from around that root. He was
pulling the last of the soil away from it when he heard the shovel scrape something metal. Looking down he was surprised to see
something other than rust. This was
something silver. Not valuable silver, more like a lead or tin color.
He pushed a bit with the shovel and whatever it was came free of the surrounding grime.

"Check this out."
His voice must have conveyed some excitement since the boys came running this time. As they neared he crouched down and
extended his closed hand.
When they came to a stop in front of him he opened his hand. There in it was a small metal figure, a two inch tall figure of
Ironman, the Marvel Comic Character.
"Cool," they marveled. "Neat."
"Isn't it cool guys," he said, pleased to have finally found something of interest to them. Wiping the last of the dirt from the figure
Russell demonstrated how it turned at the hip and how it's arms moved. He handed it to Branson first.
"It's heavy," was his first impression.
"It's made of metal," Russell explained, "Probably tin."
As Russ Jr. snatched the figure from his brother he added, "They used to make a lot of toys that way."
"Was it yours?"
"You know, I don't remember ever having one like that, but probably."
"What is it?"
"It looks like Ironman, you know, the comic book character."
"No," Russ Jr. was quick to counter, "Ironman has red and yellow on him."
"Well that probably came off if it was painted on him," his father explained, "That's Ironman alright."
Branson watched his brother carefully as he spoke to his father. He wanted the figure back and was watching for an opportunity.
His father watched his eyes on his brother’s hands.
"Where did you find him?"
"Right here, next to the root."
"Maybe we'll find more."
"Maybe."
"Are you almost ready to start chopping the root?"
Russell looked at the root in question and decided that yes, it was time to tackle that challenge. With a nod to Branson he said, "Go
get the axe there. Over by the tree."
Branson's concern over his brother's obvious interest in the Ironman figure disappeared like rain on a hot summer sidewalk as he
ran to the tree and slung the long axe over his shoulder. Now it was Russ Jr.'s turn to be concerned. Branson would get first crack
at the root.
Russell stood behind his young son and showed him how to hold the axe, telling him to choke up on it, like a baseball bat. Next he
explained to strike the root first from one angle, next from the opposite angle and then once straight down to clear the cut.
Struggling a bit with the heavy axe Branson did as told, smiling when some small wood chips cleared out of the cut just as his
father had predicted.
Backing away to let him work, Russell knelt next to Russ Jr.
"Don't worry," he said, "He'll get tired soon."
They watched in silence as Branson swung at the root for another minute or two before relinquishing the axe to his brother. Russ
Jr. stopped and handed his younger brother the Ironman figure before taking the axe in hand.
Branson came back and leaned against his father, looking at the tin toy.
"This is cool dad."
"Yeah, I like it too."
"Can I have it."
"It's yours buddy," his father said, "Just don't lose it, okay?"
Watching his brother hack away at the root Branson talked about the figure, wondering how it got there and if there might be any
more. Not wanting to raise expectations Russell downplayed the possibility that they might find more.
"Maybe his nemesis rendered him immobile and buried him there," he said instead, concocting a story to explain how he came to be
buried in their back yard.
"Yeah, and we found him and saved him," Branson finished.
Branson quietly split his attention between the figure in his hand and his brother’s efforts. Russ Jr. made more progress than his
younger brother had but it was only a matter of time before he too stopped to rest.
Russell took the axe from his son and stepped up to the root. Raising it to his shoulder he swung it down at the root, first from one
angle, next from the opposite angle and then straight down, clearing the deep cut he had made. Wood chips the size of match packs
flew from the cut, landing
at his sons feet. Again he swung the axe at the root, satisfied that his sons were impressed, satisfied that they were watching.
It was more work than he wanted to be doing but promises had been made. And promises must be kept.