Mud

Do you ever have moments when a memory from long ago seems so unbelievably clear and recent? Well, today I experienced this.

I was sitting on the portch at my friend's house, nursing Basil (as usual), and watching her two children who were thoroughly engrossed in their play. Their open sandbox had long been abandoned and I knew what I was in for as soon as the boy, the older of the two, made his way toward the muddy bed of winter-pruned rose bushes. Like a moth to the flame, he couldn't resist the calling of the sludge. I was even trying to think of the best angle to take to prevent the mess. But then, I remembered...

When I was young, my younger sister and I would spend hours upon hours concocting various mixtures of that instant fun.

I can still picture the table we had found in the back yard, the plastic toys, the sifters, the bowls, the popsicle sticks and old wooden spoons...caked with hours and days worth of stirring, spreading, scooping and spilling.

Oh the glories of mud-covered bare toes on concrete and grass warmed by the summer sun!

I think I will never stop loving the smell of moist dirt, like when it first starts to rain, or when I water the garden, or when the sprinklers are running...there's just something about that earthy combination that instantly takes me back to those sunny afternoons of my childhood.

So, this morning, I said nothing as my friend's son made his way to the puddle and called out to his sister to join him. I did nothing when their clothes were splattered with "chocolate milk" and "chicken soup". I'm not too sure what their mother will say when she returns...and it really wasn't that messy. Plus, the mud kept them occupied for a good hour or so and I got to take a trip down memory lane.

And boy, did it smell good.