Two crocus, Two stones, Mud
Now mind you that this photo was taken the end of last week before the Equinox so now, a week of sunshine later, I have a row of daffodils minding the yard. But if I wait to take photos of them and post them…. well, you see how that goes….
But this is really what spring means to me: muddy boots.
Boots muddy from working outside in spring thaw. Which always brings to mind a story from my teen years. As most of you know, I lived on a farm in Marshall County, Kansas. Spring thaw meant muck. Muck in the farmyard, muck in the chicken house, you name it. Muck and mud.
So one early spring morning, I went down to milk. The farmyard was almost boot-high in muck (meaning melting manure). I had to get a particularly stubborn cow in the barn to milk and she wouldn’t come. I chased her across the paddock, my boots sucking out of slop each time I lunged. And then, she zigged and I zagged and I wasn’t fast enough. My boots caught and I flew flat-out face down.
You can imagine how happy I was.
I got up and swore and yelled and, dripping wet and cold, I stomped off to the house. Reaching the sidewalk, I yelled, “MOM!” And Mom, as she always said to a call said, “I’m busy. You come to me.” By that time I was laughing. “Not this time,” I yelled back. “You better come look!”
And she did. And then got the hose and turned it on and washed me down in icy cold well water before she’d let me cross into the porch and strip off my clothes.
I guess that’s the sort of thing that could scar a person for life. And it did, sort of. It certainly became a story embedded in my memory. And became, in the scheme of things, one time when I could outsmart Mom’s “I’m busy. You come to me.”
And there it is. Spring and Mud. Synonymous.