Mud season.
I joke sometimes that we live in Mudville, Nowhere. The plain, unvarnished truth is that in the spring we do. It’s Bugville in the summer with flies the size of my fist waiting to attack, and the Arctic in the winter when the temperature is exactly equal in Fahrenheit and Celsius.
Wind adds a never-ending challenge to the wonder of life here – tearing down any impermanent structure and throwing it across fields with glee. But mud? Mud is the bane of our existence.