Appeared May 25, 2008





Did you know that we are suffering from a lack of dirt?

No, not here in the newsroom. We collect plenty of the stuff, and not just on the politicians.

But it seems the entire planet is lacking in dirt, according to a report from geologists published earlier this month in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

This statement may have made you, like me, scratch your head and say, “I thought the Earth was made of dirt.”

In fact, some people use the words “dirt” and “earth” interchangeably (except, of course, Eartha Kitt).

I see lots of it in my daily activities, especially any time I wear white pants, when it just jumps right up on me, uninvited.

But apparently topsoil is being lost at the alarming rate of 1 percent per year and it is not being replenished.

The article specifically said “lost.” Not stolen. Not a victim of foul play. Lost.

This begs the question: “Where could all this dirt be going?”

Outer space? Under a rug? Congress?

Before any more scientists waste brain cells, Red Bulls and taxpayer dollars trying to find the answer, I’ll talk. I know where the dirt is — it’s in my teenage daughter’s closet.

Perhaps she was storing it in case mud wrestling made a comeback.

Perhaps she planned to start an earthworm farm.

I can’t be sure. All I know is, she’s been stockpiling dirt there since she was 2.

I hadn’t been in the closet since 1999, but, searching for some old family photos the other day, I wondered if I dared risk it.

I moved slowly toward the closet, hearing the menacing theme from “Jaws” in my head as I approached. Facing the door, which suddenly seemed large and threatening, I muttered a prayer and turned the knob…

When I came to, I was lying in a pile of old shoes, toddler-size dresses, jigsaw puzzles, her rock collection, broken trophies, lint-covered Skittles, half-eaten Pop Tarts from 1995, green fuzzy stuff and 297 stuffed animals — all coated in dust and dirt.

Shannon, hearing my cries for help, ran to my side and cradled my head.

“Mom!” she yelled.

“I’ll be OK,” I muttered bravely.

“What are you doing going through my things?” she demanded, dropping my head, which hit a plastic Fisher-Price xylophone and bounced off. “Can’t I get any privacy?!”

“Can you call 911?” I said weakly.

She continued: “And look at this mess! How will I ever get things organized again?”

Organized?

I didn’t tell her but days later I sneaked outside the house and surreptitiously made a phone call to the United Nations, an organization which, according to the Post-Intelligencer, is on top of this whole dirt shortage thing.

What I did was difficult but necessary: I turned in my own daughter.

I told officials where they could find the Earth’s missing dirt and told them if they wanted it, they could come get it.

All I asked is that they didn’t hurt my daughter.

“She’s just a child,” I told them.

They said they’d come, right after they made another pick up at The National Enquirer.

Waiting for the dirt collection, I read the last few paragraphs of the article on dirt loss.

What I saw stunned me. Dirt, it said, “grows back.”

Dirt grows?!

I pulled a blanket over my head and trembled.

And then, from the direction of the closet, I heard it.

Dun-uh. Dun-uh….