My Name Is Mud

Here’s another thing I’m grateful for: Triple A memberships when you really need them, like when someone decides that they are going to drive on a rain-saturated lawn, and they stuck in six inches of mud. (I won’t tell you who did such a thing, but his name rhymes with Gob, and he’s gotten stuck already once this week in an entirely unrelated incident.) It was a few minutes of fruitless tire spinning before we gave up and called Triple A, and then waited an hour for John, the tow truck guy, to show.

Using old 2×4″s, ingenuity and my beefy muscles we were able to maneuver the car to a place where it could be towed out the rest of the way by the tow truck (and then John let me operate some of the levers!)

It was a huge inconvenience and it made us crabby, but it was sort of nice being out there with the setting sun pouring through the trees, turning them gold, and, no kidding, the mud was glorious. It was bright brown and thick and pure. No tiny rocks or little sticks, or even sand. Just pure, squishy mud. If it was warmer I would have rolled in it and dealt with the consequences after.

We were in my grandmother’s backyard, and the lawn is totally ruined.

I apologized to her, and she grinned at me. “I don’t care. It’s your yard now! Tear it up if you want!” and we laughed. And then I groaned. It IS my yard, and we’re going to have to fill in these huge tire tracks, I guess in the spring. First, though, I’m going to throw on a swimsuit and have a bit of fun. You think I’m crazy? Well, you didn’t see this mud.