Memories and Mud

On this day last year, Annie and I were arriving in Dublin, Ireland, renting a car and driving across the Irish countryside.  

On this day, I kissed the Blarney Stone, toured the Rock of Cashil (home territory for St. Patrick),  and I took the most welcome bath ever in Killarney.

That was at the end of our marathon day which began at Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle, actually the day before. 

One year later, I still say, "Thanks for the memories, Annie.  It was the trip of a lifetime."

One aspect of the day that I'll never forget is walking in green grass in my crocs.

I'd left home the day before, saying good bye to two feet of snow in the driveway, figuring that when I returned almost two weeks later, most of that snow would be gone.

When I returned two weeks later, we still had two feet of snow in the driveway. 

Lotta good that trip did to help move spring along in North Idaho.

We know better here, just as this last week has proven with snow, snow, snow.

Now, it has warmed up, and we're about to embark on the most hated time of the year for us yearners of an eternal spring, summer and fall.  

Mud season has arrived, thanks to warmer temperatures and a fairly active meltdown overnight. 

Just as I have good memories of my escape to our family homeland this time last year, I heard my sister saying last night she'd like to be back in San Francisco where she visited at this same time a year ago.

Fortunately, those memories do help distract us from the reality each time we walk outside and find the mud spreading much like that red blob in the 1950s movie. 

I can vividly recall so many moments spent sitting around the kitchen table at our North Boyer home when my dad would start his annual threat that he was gonna move back to Montana where it was much dryer.

Mud season always brought that on for Harold as the barnyard and the stock pens turned into masses of deep ooze with each wet spring day. 

The cows, horses and the humans faced daily challenges of just how they could get from one important place to another. 

At our place and at our farm on Great Northern Road, we often endured weeks of forging a way to the barns, water troughs, etc. without sinking in so deep that the mud would pour itself into the tops of our boots. 

Our strategy resembled a primitive form of dance.  

I can recall no worse moment than the many times of taking a step only to have my foot,  with sock barely hanging on,  come completely out of my boot.  

The weary boot had just given up.  

No more, it seemed to say as it remained stuck to the surface deep within a thick mass of manure, sand, straw and whatever else got mixed up in the barnyard dirt.

The next challenge was to maintain a stance with the one free foot while pulling the sock top back over my heel, aim for the boot and hope the foot went back inside. 

This was not easy, but the fear of falling face first into the slop kept me focused.

Occasionally, desperation brought on by frustration caused the planted boot to just stay stuck in the mud, as I would bite the bullet and move onward with only a sock to protect me from the yuck. 

Such scenes prevailed during the worst of the mud seasons, along with a litany of unspeakable expletives. 

We all hated mud season for many reasons, but we also had one good reason to reserve a few positive attitudes toward the annual stuck-and-yuck muck days.

Mud vacation!

Our school district at the time was so spread out and so rural and connected by so many dirt roads that mud vacation was inevitable almost every year. 

Oh, we loved mud vacation.  Sometimes these gifts from God and Mother Nature would last as long as a week or two. 

We were in Heaven, as long as we could find someplace besides our barnyard to spend our time during those welcome days away from school.

In our case, we'd often go to high ground on the mountains beneath Schweitzer where we had found some caves. 

Yup, lots of vivid memories associated with mud, including my brain storm several years ago that if you can't beat it, join it.  

A couple of years during my teaching career at the height of mud season, we Love's hosted the Mud Olympics at our farm.

Our conditions were perfect for mud tugs, a mud football game, mud relays and mud flings.

Every time I think back on those events, one image comes to mind:  a student body president named Hoyt Bonar holding onto a future student body president named Willie Love.  
Hoyt held my son up by his feet and dangled him head first into the mud.  

Willie loved it.

Each year, the teacher in me saw to it that all contingencies were considered to save the inside of the house after competitors had ended their games and celebrated with a feast.

Girls changed in the bunkhouse, while boys changed in the barn.  Towels and wash cloths were provided.

And, now many years later, I'm still trying to figure out contingencies for keeping my house relatively clean during the next few weeks.  Doggies, once they go outside, will have to stay outside.  

A towel, for wiping feet will go down next to the entrance to the laundry room.

There's no way to avoid it, and I'm sure there will be a few expletives as the thaw continues and the mud deepens. 

So, on this day when I've already tracked in some morning mud, I just think of good times  in Ireland and in Palm Springs and green grass.

Some day we'll have that here in North Idaho, but we also know that mud cometh before the grass. 

Happy Sunday.