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.
“Mud has a life force all its own and there are days – like when my boot is stuck three feet away from me – that I have to force myself not to collapse in a puddle and wail. “
Have you heard “The Hippopotamus Song”? I holler it out loud at the top of my lungs as I slog hay around to the masters I serve. They particularly appreciate the line “mud, mud, glorious mud” even as I curse and cry.
Mud has a life force all its own and there are days – like when my boot is stuck three feet away from me – that I have to force myself not to collapse in a puddle and wail. I think about mud year-round, but in Mud Season my mind struggles to let go of mud obsession: