Mud

The excitement of winter had turned to cabin fever, and we eagerly anticipated spring.  The lake started to turn liquid again, as did the six foot high snow banks in our driveway.  The first technical day of spring came, a misleading event; a few minutes outside would quickly make me realize my short sleeved shirt was not quite enough and that the word ’spring’ did not have a universal meaning.

My siblings and I made our way outside, determined to play on the grass, soggy though it was.  It had been 5 months since we’d seen it and we welcomed it as a dear friend.  We explored the property, seeing what damage had been done during the blizzards and winds, amazed that everything survived, and even looked alive and wanting to grow.

The dirt driveway became a color we had never seen before; a dark, rich velvety brown, almost a black.  We quickly discovered that not only was it a different color, it had taken on a life of its own.  It seemed hungry to eat anything that stepped on it, and it particularly liked to swallow shoes.  After having learned the hard way, my father kept a pair of rubber slip ons near the door, and the rest of us wore our boots to the car and carried our shoes.

Easter Sunday came, and my family and I donned our best Sunday clothes.  My father wore his usual suit and tie, and my mother, through the use of ribbons and new tights, made Cath and me somehow feel that we were dressed better than normal, despite the fact that our dresses were second and third generation ‘gently used’ hand-me downs. 

We went out to the car, my brother wearing his boots as shoes, and my sister and I pulling our galoshes over our white-tights clad feet, carrying our Sunday shoes in our hands. 

The mud was at a prime that day, there having been several days of constant above-freezing weather: a deep thaw.  We slowly made it to the car, cautiously aware that to lose a boot to the black monster was to ruin your Easter dress.  We piled into the large brown station wagon, my sister and I sitting in the middle while Andrew climbed into the wayback.  And we were on our way.

My father managed to back the car out, but as he turned the wheel to start the drive down the driveway, we could feel something was wrong. The car was humming, but wasn’t moving.  My sister and I looked at each other as my father put the car back in reverse, and tried again.  We were stuck in the mud.  On Easter Sunday, when the regular attendees were supposed to arrive early to get good seats.

“Alright,” my father said, as we waited with dread, “Everybody is going have to help push the car out.” We all groaned, but we knew we had no choice. The air had taken on the tense, electric feeling that happened when my father meant business.

We stepped out of the car, and saw the damage.  The car was sunken into ruts about 8 inches deep, the black sludge relentlessly getting deeper with each spin of the tire.  We knew it was going to be messy, and our battle with the slop would be a long one. 

My mother got into the driver’s seat, and the four of us trudged to the back of the car.  “One, two… three!” my father counted.  I pushed as hard as my six year old arms could push, as my mother pressed on the gas.  The tires spun, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would be to walk into church with mud on my dress. The car didn’t budge.  We tried again, watching the tires create new piles of mud around us as they tried to escape the suffocating darkness.

By that point my white tights were splattered in mud, but my dress wasn’t too bad. My sister’s was about the same. My brother was loving every second of it; he was convinced that somehow, in his four-year-old strength, he and his dad were going to move that car.

And we did. After about ten minutes of rocking, pushing, rocking, and pushing, we managed to get the station wagon out of its original ruts.  As the tires finally gripped, my mother pressed on the gas and drove to harder soil.  Fearing a repeat performance, she drove to higher, dryer ground as the rest of us walked behind, carefully avoiding getting our boots stuck.

We made it to Easter Sunday, albeit a bit late, and none of us told anyone about our experience fighting the black beast. I was  slightly embarrassed about the whole situation; how a big, heavy station wagon could be defeated so easily by something as innocent as wet dirt.  But from that point on, my mother always referred to spring as ‘mud season’… by the time the mud finally hardened again, it was already summer.

to see the lights from the lake

As the nights became darker and more snow fell, we quickly realized Christmas was coming.  What would it be like, we wondered, having Christmas in our new house? We weren’t even sure where we’d put the tree because our living room was so overcrowded with the furniture we’d brought from our old house.  We tried not to bother my mother about the upcoming holiday, but in our youth we couldn’t contain our excitement. 

“Where are we going to hang the outside lights? Where should we put our stockings? What if Santa really does come down our chimney and falls into the furnace?”  Our “chimney,” although made with real brick, led directly into a closet that contained our furnace and water heater.  This became a great concern of ours, and we pondered the ways we might be able to warn him.  “Can’t we leave the closet door open, Daddy? Please? Just for Christmas eve? He’s going to get stuck!” 

Eventually we dismissed it from our small minds and focused on a much more important issue: the Christmas tree.  We discussed it amongst ourselves, knowing that asking too many questions to my parents would get us nowhere.  Besides, we’d already asked them and they just said, “I don’t know yet.”  So in a rare moment of ceasefire, the three of us spent time downstairs in the bedroom we all shared and held meetings of great importance to converse about the concern. “When are we going to get it? We only have two weeks left! Where are we getting it from? Will it look best in the corner of the living room, or right in front of the big picture window?” After much discussion we agreed that the tree would look best in front of the window, because that way we could see the lights from the lake when we went ice-skating.   As days went by and still no tree, we became increasingly concerned.  How could we have Christmas with no tree?

The Saturday before Christmas arrived, and we decided we needed to perform an intervention.  The three of us approached my father as he sat at the kitchen table, eating his lunch of grilled cheese and potato chips. 

“Daddy,” my sister started, “Christmas is in 6 days.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” he replied, taking a big bite of his sandwich.

“Well, you see,” she continued, “we don’t have a tree yet, and well, we were wondering when we are going to get one…”

“Well,” my father said.  He paused for a minute, thinking, and took a drink of milk. ”Well, why don’t we get one this afternoon? We can go cut one down from right here in our own yard! Let me take a nap first, and then we’ll go out together and pick out the best one.”

So that was the answer to the weeks of anxiety.  We were going to get one from our very own yard!  Boy, were we excited.  Someone before us had planted a very small Christmas tree “farm” along the border of our property.  Really it was just a bunch of toddler pine trees planted, I’m sure, to create a natural barrier between us and the small strip mall next to us.  But we didn’t care – all we could think about was that tree. 

We gathered our snow gear; our most recent expedition to that part of the property told us that the snow drifts amounted to at least several feet.  Plastic bagged feet slid into boots, snowpants were donned, and our mitten clad hands were stuffed into our jacket arms.  We added our hats and scarves and were ready to go when my father woke from his nap.

We tredged into the whiteness, excited to be outdoors.  We each secretly inhaled the cold, fresh New England air, a personal moment for each of us as we associated the crisp scent of pine and snow with freedom from all other worries.  The sun was shining, a not-so-usual event, which meant we were nearly blinded by the glare off the snow and the clear, pale blue sky.  We ran ahead into the miniature forest while my father went into the garage to find his hand saw and the snow shovels. 

This was the moment.  Our first Christmas tree in our new house.  Which one should we pick???  We walked around, somberly considering each tree from all angles.  The first one looked good, but then we noticed the interior needles were all dry.  We raced to a tree that my brother had pointed which looked PERFECT from a distance, but an up close and winded inspection revealed an unfortunate asymmetry.  Then my sister and father located THE tree.  The shape was in true Christmas tree fashion – wide at the base and teeny at the top.  The branches were full and well distributed, and it wasn’t completely buried in snow.

My dad cut it down, and we dragged it to the house.  After shaking off the excess snow, we let it to dry a little outside while we set up the tree stand and gathered the lights and ornaments.  Then, after testing our patience to the extreme, we finally carried the tree into the house, dropping needles through the kitchen and into the living room. 

It was then that we started to notice something was amiss.  The tree, which seemed so perfect, so ideal in the great outdoors, suddenly seemed very small.  Too small.  In fact, the tree wasn’t much taller than I was, and I was only six years old. 

This was not good. Not good at all.  My brother and sister and I looked at each other, each of us thinking the same thing.  We have a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

“Mom!” my brother cried, visibly upset. “We won’t even be able to see the lights from the lake!”

“We’ll make it work,” my mother said.  Having played the role of problem solver for years, she knew the importance of keeping a good attitude.

“I know,” she said. “Let’s put it up onto something… How about the hassock?”

We gave it a try.  We hoisted the tree, lights, stand and all, onto the hassock and placed it in front of the picture window. 

“Yes, see? We’ll still put the skirt around it, and there! Our first Christmas tree, from our very own back yard!” How she did it, I don’t know.  But my mother somehow managed to soothe our distraught souls and make us content with a four foot tree propped up with a footstool.  We decorated the tree, hanging miniature disco balls, wreaths, tinsel, and macaroni ornaments while listening to Roger Whittaker sing “Mighty Like a Rose.”  Evening came, and we went outside.

And sure enough, we could still see the lights from the lake.

pilgrims

The months had gone by, and winter came.  The hours became darker; the sun rose at seven thirty and set at four o’clock, and high noon cast a shadow that felt like sunset.  I didn’t understand that this was why my parents always seemed to be in a gloom during these winter months, that this was why the energy of the entire family seemed to lull. 

We’d get home from school, and it was time for dinner then time for bed.  It was earlier than usual, but we didn’t care; the darkness seemed to creep into our minds and bodies, causing us all to realize that there was nothing better than sleep.

But then the weekend came.  My father, my sister and I slept late every Saturday, recovering from the week of alarm clocks and my mother’s call of “Cathy!  Susan!  Time to get up!”  My mother and brother were up at the crack of dawn as usual, something the rest of could not comprehend.  Even at the young age we were, our sleeping patterns were already established.

Once the rest of us got up, our mornings usually consisted of making our own breakfasts and watching cartoons.  At about eleven o’clock, when the cartoons ended, we had to decide what to do with the day. 

This weekend was different.  This weekend it had snowed.  We had had a deep, long snow earlier in the week, the absolute worst type of snow to come on a school day.  We had spent the last four days staring out at the snow during class, unable to go out and play.  By the time we got home it was too dark to go outside, so we’d had to wait.

But then it was Saturday.  And Saturday meant we could play.  There were no cartoons that Saturday.  By the time my sister and I woke up, my brother was wearing his snowpants, with his bright red mittens, attached by a knitted string, draped around his neck.

He impatiently waited as we ate our breakfast and changed out of our flannel nightgowns and into jeans, thick socks, and baggy turtleneck sweaters. 

We came downstairs and by that time he’d put his purple hat on, and was zipping up his jacket.  Cathy and I got into our bright pink and lobster red snowpants, and all three of us put on our boots.  Putting on our boots was never an easy task, our mobility being hindered by the bulky layers previously donned.  My mother gave us all plastic bags, with which we lined our boots in case of the most likely event we got snow down our shoes.

And then we were ready.  We opened the door and walked down the three icy cement steps into the white winter wonderland.  The crisp air hit our scarf covered faces like a splash of cold water, our noses immediately tensing and inhaling the fresh winter scent.

This was our first time playing in the snow at our new house, and we didn’t know where to go first.  Do we go onto the ice? Do we walk through the woods? Do we play on the swing?  We decided to walk around and scope out the prospects.  We were delighted to learn that the hill down to the lake which was awkward during the summer made an excellent sledding hill, and the frozen ice made a perfectly flat landing ground. 

This snow was deep.  To our short legs the drifts were impossible to walk through.  Wandering around this uncharted territory we felt like explorers of a new land, discovering new and exciting facets of the world.  How deep was the snow by the fallen log? What did the big maple tree look like, covered in a white blanket?  Exactly how high were the piles made by the snowplow?  Could we find the ball we’d left in the front yard? We were sure we’d left it right by the shed, but decided someone must have stolen it. 

After an hour of exploring we were exhausted, tredging through the two foot snow having made our short legs work more than they were used to.  We fell onto the ground, sinking into the whiteness in a way that, to us, defied gravity.  We could fall and not get hurt! 

We spread our arms and legs and desperately tried to make snow angels, but realized the snow had melted too much for our tired and jello limbs.  So we just lay there, looking up into the gray sky, feeling strangly warm and cold at the same time. 

“Don’t fall asleep!” my sister warned. “People who fall asleep in the snow sometimes don’t ever wake up!”

We made sure to keep our eyes wide open.

a vignette of old

She was sick of us pestering her.  She was sick of us pestering each other.  She was sick of the workload ahead of her, and the distractions around her.  She’d had enough.

“Alright, that’s enough.” When she spoke like that, we knew to shut up. “We’re going swimming.”

We were overjoyed.  We’d been at this cottage called a house for several days and had not dipped into the lovely little lake on which it rested.  My mother wanted to be with us when we broke into the calm waters; we were too young to watch ourselves. 

We dug our bathing suits out from the unopened boxes of clothes, and undressed faster than we had ever done before.  The excitement had been mounting for days, and the effects of being teased by the bright blue waters had become unbearable.

It was Labor Day weekend, and we had just moved from the only house we’d ever known into a tiny, 2 bedroom cottage on Greenwood Pond.  The nut brown house sat on two and a half acres of waterfront property, which made up for its lack of stature.  The property was lined by tall oaks, maples, pines, and bright white birches, and was set back from the road so we truly felt we were removed from the world.

It was idyllic, and we couldn’t wait to jump into that water.

We ran out to the “beach”, a small strip of weeds and coarse sand that bordered a few yards of water.  My mother followed carrying our towels and a folding chair.  We didn’t care that we had no sand toys, no inflatable tubes, and only one of us knew how to swim. We were ready.

Being the oldest, my sister ran in first.  There were a few moments of pure jealousy that she had gone in first, had felt the cool wetness of the lake before we had even reached it. 

Then she started screaming. ”My feet! My feet!”  My brother and I, close behind, stopped abruptly and didn’t dare venture into the water.  What could be in there, eating her feet?

My mother quickly came to the water. 

“What is it, Cathy?” she asked. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

“They hurt; they just hurt!” Cathy cried.

“Both of them?”

“No, just one.”

“Well, come out of the water and let’s have a look,” my mother said in her ever calm voice.

My sister started walking out of the water, and started screaming again, “My other foot!  Ow, Mom! My other foot now!”

She crawled onto the shore on her hands and knees.  By this time my brother and I could see the water near her feet spiraling with red swirls.  What had happened to her? we wondered.

She sat on the sand and lifted her feet for us all to see.  There were slices up and down each foot, dripping with bright crimson blood. 

“Well,” my mother said, “It looks like we’ve got clams.”