Barbara McCollough - Digger

Digger is an astonishing story, beautifully written, full of suspense, and threaded with the insight and wisdom of the author who has devoted her life to finding the truth of a family secret whether or not she had a twin. Thrilling, inspiring, and deeply poignant, this is also a story about the search for wholeness, that longing of the heart which is universal.

Words cannot convey the power of this memoir its dramatic momentum, mystical threads, and profound understanding of human nature and familial relationships. Digger is a landmark book, a remarkable achievement which deserves the highest possible recommendation.

OLIVIA AMES HOBLITZELLE

Author of Ten Thousand Joys & Ten Thousand Sorrows: a Couples Journey Through Alzheimers and Aging with Wisdom: Reflections, Stories & Teachings.

In Digger Barbara McCollough brings clarity and immediacy to a very complex, layered story. A gifted observer of people in relationships; she knows what they show and what they hide; she knows what they know but refuse to acknowledge. In Digger we see how people give themselves away, but of course, what we really see is McCollough giving us these people giving themselves away through gestures, dialogue, silences in other words, through ART. Brava!

RICHARD HOFFMAN

Author of Half the House and Love & Fury.

A compelling and exquisitely narrated search for a lost twin, Digger gradually reveals its higher octave as an initiatory journey to the oneness of being. Laced with delightful sparkles of poignant humour, McCollough draws us from the beginning to this elusive hub of universal intimacy.

MONIQUE POMMIER, PHDE

Author of Harmony, the Heartbeat of Creation: The convergence of ancient wisdom and quantum physics in the triune pulse of natures form.

With as much rich compassion as compelling investigation, Barbara McCollough has given us a gorgeously wrought memoir that you wont want to put down, one that youll never forget.

RACHAEL HERRON

Internationally Bestselling Author of Splinters of Light, A Life in Stitches, and Pack Up the Moon.

Every summer, no matter where we lived, my father would pack us all into the car to go visit our relatives in Western Pennsylvania. Much as I was eager to rejoin my cousins to see who had grown the most in the intervening year, to play in the deep green woods and to taste Grams homemade cinnamon buns which she always made to welcome us, I was most curious to see if Digger was still alive.

Would the black mongrel still be chained to the doghouse just out of reach of the path to Grams back door, where day after day and year after year he paced at the farthest reach of his tether? Digger would scan the far horizon as though intently on the lookout; he would bark ferociously if anyone came into the yard--or any nearby yard, for that matter. Periodically, he would stop to furiously dig into the earth with a hell-bent frenzy until the chain around his neck suddenly stopped his progress. Even then, he would continue to yank on that chain until he choked, at which point he would capitulate to a power greater than his own. He would pause, and then, seeming to accept his temporary defeat, he would resume his pacing at the chains farthest extension, his path creating a perfect arc in the front of the doghouse. Years later, when I studied geometry and learned about radius and circumference, I thought of Digger. The path he wore into the earth was as perfect an arc as any that my compass made on the surface of my paper.

My parents would have been surprised to know how much I thought about Digger. The fact was, nobody ever thought about Digger; he was just a dog and no one interacted with him. My grandfather went out and threw a sloppy gruel of leftovers and dog chow into his rusty metal dish once a day. His watering needs were handled by nature; whatever was left by snow or rain or dew in the old upturned hub cap on the perimeter of Diggers walk had to be enough moisture for him. I could tell by looking at the ravaged yard that periodically someone moved the doghouse to give Digger fresh terrain to explore.

What was the purpose of Diggers life, I wondered. Back home in Arkansas, we had a pet dog, Clarence, who was part of our family; he lived in the house with us, even slept in the bed with my younger brother Bill, although my mother put up an obligatory but ineffective protest against this practice.

On one summer visit, I asked my father, Dad, why is Digger outside by himself all the time?

Well, honey, its because Digger is a hunting dog, my father explained. Up here, dogs arent pets. They are used to sniff out the animals when the men go out hunting. Thats how the hunter can tell where the animal is.

Is Pappap a hunter? I asked.

No, he doesnt hunt, my father said.

Isnt Digger his dog? I asked.

Yes, he is, my father said.

If Pappap doesnt hunt, why does he keep a dog for hunting? I asked. When my father didnt answer, I went on. If hes not going to hunt, why cant Digger come inside?

My father was silent.

Or, if Digger is going to hunt with someone else, I continued, why cant he come in the house until they go hunting?

My father sighed. I dont know. Hes not my dog! Why are you asking so many questions? Lets go in for dinner.

Two days later I jumped at the chance to help Pappap feed Digger.

Pappap, why is Digger chained up out here? Cant he come inside the house with us?

Naw, he said. Hes a watchdog. How can he do his job if hes inside the house?

A watchdog? I asked.

Yep, Digger barks like the dickens so we know if someones coming, Pappap said.

But Pappap, I persisted, He barks even when someone isnt coming, so how do you know when he means it?

Pappap grunted something I didnt hear and picked up the empty gruel pail. I knew not to press further, but I was confused. Clarence barks from inside the house when someone comes to the door. He didnt need to be tied up outside to do that. Maybe Pappap doesnt know this. Besides, if Digger cant get off his chain, how could he be scary to anyone coming onto the property to do them harm? Only someone stupid enough to go right over to the doghouse.