I love mud.
Today, I love it. Tomorrow, I will love it too.
I look out my window and can actually see the snow melting. Our driveway slopes away from the house and therefore, the snow melt runs in streams away from the house and it's a pleasing sight.
The snow dinosaur the child care kids built just a month ago is now merely two humps. (insert giddy laughter)
The kids come in from their play time outside caked with dirt and mud (insert maniacal snort)
The dog comes in from doing his thing, and his paws are slick with mud (insert girl-like tittering)
Spring is sprung soon and the death of snow is my favorite snuff story. I want to film it and market it. Call it "White Death" or "Gone With The Mud" or "Puddles, A Love Story."
I once wrote in a recent blog how March 4th, my birthday, was always a turning point of the year for me, because it marked the end of winter. Even though we almost always got dumped on a few times afterward, the snowstorms lacked luster. The snow would accumulate, but then nearly as quickly shrink.
Scrubby, dead grass spots would appear on the lawn here and there. Twigs fallen from the trees during the winter began to appear like the bones of excavated prehistoric reptiles. The blinding whiteness of days was turning into dirty, muddy blandness.
And I love it.
I went for a walk for the first time since last fall, and was hit with the smell of melting snow, the change in the direction of the sun. The very air itself held promise.
I love mud. Mud is great. I worship mud.
It means a trip to Jack's Greenhouse is not far away. And raking and mowing. Tilling and planting the vegetable garden. Drinking a beer on the deck while grilling burgers.
I love mud.