The Need For Mud

The day was loosely planned, marked on the calendar as "Messy Day," and predicted by weathermen to be a threat for any outdoor activities.

Well, almost any.

The clouds came early, even before the sun. Dressed for a mess, we mounted the four-wheeler and aimed for every dirt and gravel road within a mile of our starting point. The mist began, perfectly in sync with the first rev of the engine. The further we drove, the harder the rain came.

I drive like a girl, so I chose to be the passenger. Still, I startled like a girl at every turn and tilt.

As a child, I was discouraged to be within arms-reach of this southern red clay mud, but, on this day, mud seemed a necessity. If mud was not nearby, the day had lost its purpose. Muddiness had already been planned, marked on the calendar, and predicted. A mess was required of us.

I thought mudslinging was a political term until I found its reality standing in a field between a creek and a swamp beneath tablespoon-sized raindrops. We dismounted here.

Leaves that had been dried out then dampened again by rain were meshed with tiny sticks and insects in our sloshing tracks. My vision was watery, but I clearly watched as a handful of the mix soared through the air and hit me square. For the first time in a lifetime, I reached down into the mire and brought forth retaliation. Childish reasoning emerged -- he started it. Cold brown mud squished through my fingers, and I realized my carefree childhood had been dormant for far too long. I needed this dirt.

Moments later, remnants of the battle covered each of us wholly. Smeared, splattered... and smiling.