The Longest Running Clandestine Operation in the History of the Zakes Family - Part III

Part III – The Room

This is the third installment of a three part story from my childhood. If you missed part one or two, please go back and read it now. (Click HERE for Part I or Click HERE for Part II).

The tunnel hadn’t taken as long as the shaft, and the room would form even faster. Since the tunnel was only long enough to reach the front wall of the room, we had to continue to tunnel another foot or two in order to begin to dig up. And that is when things got fun.

To dig the room, especially initially, required the digger to punch his digging screwdriver up into the ceiling above his head. Obviously the dislodged dirt would fall directly down – most often directly onto the face of the digger. This is when the snorkel and scuba mask actually helped. It was extremely hot and sweaty work. The humidity from being underground, surrounded by moist dirt walls, was stifling. Add in the exertion of pushing mounds of dirt down the tunnel over and around your body to be loaded and hoisted by the non-digger, and a couple of 100-watt light bulbs, and it was bordering on ridiculous. The loosened dirt clung to your body and as time went on and little critters found “the hole” it became a dwelling filled with spiders, cockroaches, and crickets. Claustrophobia was overcome daily.

In a short time though, there was enough room to sit Indian-style in the “room” and then progress began to really pick up. Before long we could both fit and then shortly thereafter both stand.

Soon the room was large enough for four people. Sure that wasn’t big enough for my entire family, but really it was bigger and better than I had ever conceptualized. And with the project complete in my mind – and just as the project had quickly been initiated by the imagination of a 10-year-old – something else had caught the imagination of my now 13-year-old mind – the bicycle. And just as quickly as we’d started, I pretty much just walked away – tired, filthy, and satisfied.

For the first several years, Dan and I had kept the entire project completely secret. As we finished the shaft though and then the tunnel, the secret became too great and we each had introduced a friend or two to the project. Dan and few friends soldiered on briefly, enlarging the room slightly by digging benches out of the walls, but it was really “our” project, and when I left, we essentially both left.

In 2005 my parents sold the house. A year before selling the house my dad replaced the pool shed floor because over the years dripping wet kids going in and out to get pool toys and inner tubes had weakened the plywood floor and eventually someone was going to fall through and get hurt.

When they sold the house, to my knowledge, they didn’t tell the buyer about the tunnel. The pool shed floor no longer had a secret trap door and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. To this day though, every once in a while I’ll wonder about the reaction of the next guy to replace the floor of that shed.

“Honey, you’re never going to believe this…there’s a shaft going down underneath the shed floor – it’s so deep I can’t even see the bottom…”

My dad was the one who enabled all of this. He didn’t laugh at my fears or attempt to brush them aside. He didn’t tell us it was too dangerous or too…anything. Instead he supported and loved and encouraged. He did the perfect thing – he created memories and experiences for Dan and me that will be recalled with fondness and shape our lives for decades.


You can follow me on Twitter @eddyzakes

The Longest Running Clandestine Operation in the History of the Zakes Family - Part II

Part II – The Tunnel

This is the second installment of a three part story from my childhood. If you missed part one, please go back and read it now. (Click HERE for Part I).

After two years of digging the shaft, we finally had permission to continue with Phase II of our secret operation.

At the very base of the shaft, on the east end of our 18-inch wide, by 30-inch long, by 6-foot deep shaft, we started chipping away at the super hard packed clay. Bit by bit, bucket by bucket, we began to make our lateral traverse.

Since the shaft was a little over six feet deep and we were just young boys we developed an elaborate dirt removal system. Even then Dan was a rope and knot genius and between the two of us we had a multi-bucket pulley system.

Whoever the tunnel digger was would load up a small pail – usually a five quart ice cream bucket – and whoever was “topside” would hoist it out when it was full. As soon as the full bucket cleared the shed floor, an empty bucket was lowered down so that tunneling wouldn’t have to stop while the first bucket was being dumped.

The five quart pail was dumped into a five gallon bucket. We had fifteen to twenty of those. Immediately after we began the project, long before the shaft was six feet deep, we’d run into the problem of getting rid of the dirt. What do two boys do with literally tons of dirt?

At first we loaded it, double bagged, into plastic groceries sacks, looped a bag over either side of the handlebars of our bikes, and pedaled to a discreet dumping site, say perhaps the farm field at the end of our block, or eventually a few housing developments that were being prepared, and then nonchalantly pour the dirt out. We did it just like the POWs in The Great Escape, sprinkling it about so that “no one” would catch on.

That was great and all when we were digging a couple of spoonfuls worth of dirt out per hour. However, once summer came and we started getting into softer dirt as the shaft got deeper, the bike-bag method became insufficient.

Instead, every couple of weeks we’d load all 15 or so five-gallon buckets, each weighing over 50 pounds, into the back of my dad’s work van. Eventually we got tired of carrying the buckets out to the curb and graduated to putting them in our Red Radio Flyer wagon and pulling them out to the van two at a time. Once the van was loaded, Dan and I would “talk” my dad into driving the van to church. Our church had several acres of undeveloped property and a lot of it was very uneven. So really you could say we were just helping out.

As we tunneled we became more and more concerned about cave-ins. Logical, right? But again in our infinite young minds we were prepared.

The answer: Cave-in Drills.

Every time we dug in the tunnel we’d wear our “safety equipment.” It wasn’t much and thankfully it was never required to really work, but we had it none-the-less. In order to dig, we would usually lie on our backs and dig headfirst above and behind our heads. Whoever was tunneling would wear scuba-style swim goggles to prevent the collapsing dirt from falling in his eyes or nose. They’d breathe through a snorkel, modified so that it lay on their chest toward the mouth of the tunnel, in case a large cave-in occurred. Again in our brilliance, as the tunnel got longer, we duct taped a length of rubber hosing to the end of the snorkel to enhance its range.

Bucket by bucket load we awkwardly inched forward. A foot of tunnel became two and then three. And eventually we had an 18-inch wide, 18-inch tall, and 6-foot long tunnel. We called my dad out and after a quick inspection he approved our progress enough to allow us to commence construction of “The Room.”

To be continued… (Click HERE to read Part III.)

The Longest Running Clandestine Operation in the History of the Zakes Family - Part I

Part I - The Shaft

This is the first installment of a three part story from my childhood. It is recalled to the best of my ability. (To read Part II, please click HERE.)

What goes through the mind of a 10-year-old?

There were race riots in Los Angeles, just one state over, as a result of the Rodney King beating. By the time the police, the U.S. Army, the Marines, and the National Guard restored order, the casualties included 53 deaths, 2,383 injuries, more than 7,000 fires, damages to 3,100 businesses, and nearly $1 billion in financial losses.

The year before, the First Gulf War had ended. Every night the network news had shown missile launch after missile launch, bombing run after bombing run.

In school I was beginning to learn of and grasp the horrors of the Holocaust.

I knew that smaller race riots had spread to other cities and I had gradually grown concerned that they would move to Phoenix. I wasn’t sleeping well—I was scared.

I went and talked to my dad and told him of my concerns. Thankfully he didn’t laugh at me – instead he sensed I had a solution and asked what I had in mind.

I felt that my family should build a safe space somewhere. Some sort of combination between the European smuggler’s room that Jews were hidden in – this would protect me from race riots or a Holocaust-like nightmare – and a bomb shelter – which would protect me from Saddam Hussein and World War III.

“Well…I was thinkin’ we should dig a room under the house. Maybe put something over it to hide it.” I’d seen The Great Escape where Steve McQueen and the other POW’s had used a stove to conceal the entrance to their escape tunnel—something like that seemed pretty smart to me.

“How do ya think you’ll get through the concrete foundation?” my dad asked.

I didn’t know. I hadn’t fully thought this through—I was only 10.

Being the good dad he was, he had a different idea for me.

“What do you think of starting somewhere on the outside of the house and then digging under it?” he suggested. “Maybe you could start in the shed.”

A plan was formulated. He gave my brother Dan and I permission to dig a shaft down beneath the pool shed until it had reached an ‘appropriate depth,’ then tunnel over until we were under the house, and then, finally, we could dig a ‘room.’

I’d imagine my dad probably thought that my fears would subside in a few weeks and we’d never make it to the ambiguous ‘appropriate depth.’

My dad did get us started though. He cut an 18 by 30-inch section of the plywood shed floor to create our access hatch. We pounded nails into it and then cut them off underneath in an effort to camouflage our trap door—it looked like it was secured just the same as the rest of the floor. We could pop it up with a flat-headed screwdriver in the right spot.

And so…

My brother Dan and I commenced the longest running clandestine operation in the history of the Zakes family.

Quickly we settled into a routine. We’d get home from school, change into our swimming suits, and head out into the backyard for a swim in our pool—that was our cover story anyways.

After a quick dip in the pool, we’d look both ways, then round the corner into our corrugated tin pool shed. If it was even remotely hot outside then the swim wasn’t just a convenient alibi, it was a survival mechanism. It was unexaggerably hot in the shed.

The shed was hot enough by itself, but if the reflector oven nature of a tin shed in Arizona sunshine wasn’t bad enough, we always worked with the door shut. While the project was a “secret operation,” even we probably wouldn’t have gone to that length if it wasn’t for the worst neighbors ever.

No, seriously – the worst ever.

John and Jenny moved in shortly after we did. You’ve probably read books or seen movies where less than stellar neighbors were depicted. John and Jenny trumped them. For instance, one time at Christmas, my brother Dan – maybe 5 years old at the time – took a plate of Christmas goodies over to their house as a gift from our family. My parents had picked Dan because they figured the neighbors would be nicest to him – he was the youngest and cutest at the time. Dan reached up on his tippy-toes and rang the doorbell. After a few seconds of waiting, John opened the door. Dan lifted the plastic wrapped and ribbon-tied plate up to reach John’s hands and chimed, “Merry Christmas.” John looked at the plate, then down at Dan, said, “We don’t eat that stuff,” and turned and slammed the door.

Or one time we were having a stray cat problem in our neighborhood. The cat population had exploded and the cats were inbreeding and infected and dying. So we trapped a few in a humane live trap and took them to the Maricopa County Animal Control. John and Jenny called the police and the story was converted to, “The Zakes family has been trapping cats, loading them in burlap sacks, then drowning them in irrigation canals.” Once the police arrived, a quick look at the records cleared that one up.

Or one time me and my friends were playing catch and an errant throw landed the ball over the fence and in their yard. Rather than tossing it back over, John walked over, picked up the football in one hand, picked up a knife in the other, popped it, and then dropped it in his dumpster (in full view of us).

Or if you need more convincing, their were all of the times they would use their leaf blower to blow all of their leaves into our yard, or the time they called the cops on Dan for “trying to shoot their dog,” or any of the times they yelled over the fence at us to shut up, or fired up their gas-powered and mufflerless 100-gallon air compressor at 6:00 on a Saturday morning, or…you probably get the point.

Needless to say, the shed door was always shut while we were working. It dampened the noise and prevented prying eyes.

The beginning was nearly intolerably slow. We’d taken some of my dad’s tools—“he probably won’t miss this screw driver or that hammer”—and we’d hammer the screwdriver into the dirt and then pry up a chunk. The chunk would go into a bucket and we’d pry out another chunk.

Once we had a small depression in the ground, at the end of each day we would drag our garden hose over to the shed and push it through a little corner of the shed wall that we’d bent aside. With the spigot on for even a few seconds our tiny divot would overflow and that was the end of our digging for that day.

The next night when we’d trot back out there, the ground would be just slightly softer than concrete—maybe more like fresh asphalt. We’d chip away some more and finally, after perhaps a month, Dan who was younger and smaller could curl into a contortionist’s fetal position, and I could close the trap door on top of him.

We were so proud. But it was a mere shadow of what was to come.

For the next several years – I’m not kidding, really YEARS – we pried and dug our way downward. We used every conceivable tool: hammers, screwdrivers, a saw, scissors, a pitchfork, shovels (pointed, flat, even sandbox shovels). And eventually we could both stand up in the shaft and pull the lid over our heads.

The shaft was narrow and looked pretty ominous. The shed interior wasn’t big or bright and so if you stood over the hole, even with the shed door open, you couldn’t see the bottom without accessory lighting. The shaft got to the point that it was so deep we couldn’t get in or out without assistance—the hand and footholds carved into the walls were the only ingress and egress mechanisms.

Every so often my fantastic father would come out and check on us and our progress. At last, the day arrived when he came out and said the hole was deep enough and we could begin the part we’d been dreaming of – the TUNNEL.

And to this point we’d told no one.

To be continued… Click HERE for Part II.

The Meanest Thing I Ever Did

Now I don’t know what you think about me, but I’d imagine (hopefully) you think I’m a nice, funny, and friendly person. I wasn’t always that way.

I’ve had a few lapses.

The worst came when I was 10. I was like most ten-year-olds—happy, carefree, with a sloppy grin that said I’d probably done something worthy of getting in trouble for recently. I had a friend down the block named Josh Dover. Josh lived with his grandparents because his dad was a Green Beret and his mom had run off years before.

Josh’s dad was the epitome of coolness, absolutely idolized by Josh and I; his grandparents were the quintessential eccentrics. Josh’s dad came home on leave a couple of times a year. He would lie on the concrete by the side of the pool in his swimsuit, muscles taut, tan, and bulging from hours plunging through dark, humid jungles lugging around a belt-fed machinegun defending the good old U.S. of A. (that’s what we figured anyways since he couldn’t tell us where he’d been). He’d lie there with aviator sunglasses hiding his piercing stare, the paratrooper tattoo on one shoulder and a snake tattoo on the other. Every ten minutes he’d flip the sunglasses to the side, roll over into the pool, sink to the bottom and hold his breath for what seemed like two or three minutes, surface and climb back up to his previous spot, do 100 pushups, then put the sunglasses back on and lay there some more.

His grandparents were a different story. His grandmother was always trying to learn a foreign language. She had successfully taught herself several, including German and Japanese, but when I knew here she was working on Spanish. She expected Josh and his sister Nikki to address her as Abuelita, which is “little grandmother” in Spanish. Every meal she served seemed to include a variety of beans—lima, kidney, pinto, wax, and navy beans, but never anything normal like green or baked beans. She wore a lot of jewelry and it was all turquoise and silver.

She also wore a wig.
His grandpa was a three war veteran and had suffered the consequences. He’d served in the tail end of World War II, a good chunk of Korea, and the beginning of Vietnam. He was deeply moody and would change his mind frequently. When Josh was out playing with me and was supposed to come home, he would come out the front door and blow this red plastic bugle. We could hear it anywhere in the three or four block radius that we were allowed to roam.

So anyways, one day Josh and I were playing war—what we played at least 75% of the time. We each had a full uniform, minus the combat boots. We’d run around in our camouflage and white tennis shoes hiding behind trees, diving to the ground, and belly-crawling while surviving withering attacks by massive yet invisible forces.

Eventually we figured out who we should make the “bad guys.” In the middle of our block, exactly half way between Josh’s house and mine was a white house owned by a single lady who ran a daycare out of her home.

Every summer when we were out of school the daycare was packed with boys and girls our age who frankly had very little to do all day. We recruited them and outfitted them with our surplus cap guns and old BB-guns that didn’t work any more, and then we retreated to our bases and plotted attacks against each other.

One summer there were twin boys, probably around eight years old, who stayed there from 6:30am until 5:30pm Monday through Friday. Around 2:30 one afternoon we were hard at war. It was 105 degrees and we probably weren’t thinking as rationally as we should have been.

We captured one of the twins and began interrogating him. We wanted to know where his brother was, as well as the rest of his gang—but mainly where the brother was.

He wouldn’t tell. Like a good soldier, he’d give his name, rank, and serial number, but nothing else. We threatened torture. He called our bluff.

Then the meanest thing I ever did transpired.

I handcuffed the boy with a pair of metal cuffs (every good soldier carries handcuffs, I think).

I gave him one ‘last’ chance. He refused and repeated his name, rank, and serial number.

I pulled off his shirt.

I gave him one MORE ‘last’ chance. He declined again.

I marched him across my yard to the biggest ant hill I could find. I kicked the top off of it.

I gave him one more LAST chance—and this time it really was his last chance. He refused—I told him this wasn’t the time to be a hero. He pretended to spit in my face and say he’d do anything for his country.

I kicked his legs out from under him (which was easy since he was handcuffed) and laid him face down in the ant pile which was now swarming with angry ants. I held him for what seemed an eternity—probably 15-20 seconds. Then I rolled him over onto this back. After half a minute he began to scream.

My mom was in the kitchen and came running out. Of course I let him up immediately.

We walked the poor kid back to his babysitter’s house. The babysitter called his mother. The boy had an allergic reaction. His mom had to leave work early and take the boy to the emergency room where he was treated for 137 ant bites.

He never played with me again, and I never found out where his brother was hiding either.

Needless to say I got in big trouble and won’t be doing that again because I definitely learned my lesson.

And that is the meanest thing I have ever done.



—Eddy Zakes (as remember roughly 15 years later)

eazakes@juno.com