I love mud.
I love how it sticks to my muck boots and almost pulls them off while I trudge through a paddock. I love how four hungry critters are oblivious of the mud and vie for the grub bucket whose contents (Equine Senior) goes to the old mare on the second paddock and not them, all fat from a winter of eating from the unlimited round bale Golden Corral snack bar. They ignore my arm waving to back off. I threaten to kick out at them like their own species. Well, I say I’m going to kick them. I can’t. I struggle through the sticky mud hoping I won’t suffer the indignity of falling flat on my face in the mud.
I love the squishy, cold, stinky, clay muck that runs down my arm as I push the water hose through the fence to top off the tank. Using my sleeve to rub off the mud on my nose from the road an observer might think I’m wiping snot off my drippy nose. Only I know.
I love how my horses look with multiple layers of mud still wet, it hasn’t dried out here enough to establish a cracked existence on their coats, it’s layered like a soufflé. I love my dogs galloping around the barnyard hitting every mud puddle he can to make sure the ride back to the house puts some new mud designs on the velour interior of the backseat of my truck. I need a cover for the backseat, I’ll put that on my list for Pet Supply, wherever that is.
I love how my boots have a minute leak in them even though they’re called Muck boots and are from my favorite shopping center, Tractor Supply. That cold wet feeling makes my recently bleached white tube socks dirty without even stepping on the ground in house or field.
I love how I discover later in the day when I’m on errands that my pants have big swirls of dried mud on them. I’m sure the city folk wonder if the hay seed from Woodford County knows how to clean up before going to the Kmart Superstore.
I love how the mud makes my big dog prints all over my cherry floors even with multiple layers of rugs, (AstroTurf works the best so far), on the back porch installed over the other standard mud catching floor coverings to “nab” the mud before it enters the house. Best 10 bucks I’ve spent for far this year.
I love how the wet mop sits on the boot tray at the door ready for a quick swipe to clean the floors.
I love how while I’m working I find bits of mud that has dried, imagine that, in my hair where the horses have flicked it into the air and I caught it, with my hair. That of course happens after I’ve pushed my hat off so I can hear my phone which rings while I’m an inanimate object stuck to the ground standing on the so apply called “dry lot”.
Yes, mud is a good thing, which means there has been water falling from the sky and into this lucky dry lot which is the spot where it (the water) streams across the road from my neighbors high and dry field. It means my hen house is the only dry thing in what should be dry, a gravel bed of stone, while the hen yard is well wet. And rather fragrant. I have beautiful Thoroughbred horse stall straw in their little hen house and it for the lack of anything else in the general area smells wonderful.
Oh, and my truck, it tolerates the mud. It won’t move much on mud, even with the big fat off road kind of tires I had installed on it last year after getting stuck on wet leaves. It will eventually get traction on the red clay that lies just to the north of my gravel driveway as I press on the gas pedal of course expecting a whimpy response from the big truck tires. It spins its way out of the driveway onto the country lane in front of our house flipping red clay as we go, marking my descent onto the roadway.
I believe this truck and I have a symbiotic relationship because it goes places I like to go with things in it and behind it, but it also likes to go fast and could easily make tire marks down our road if I’d let it. I used to mark roads with rubber, guess I’ve gotten too old for that nonsense. So, back to the mud with the truck. After it catches the mud in the driveway, it flings it all over the wheel wells and gobs get stuck in the tire tread. For sure this is a little grass and critter farmer because this truck is used like a truck: hay, horses, trailers, art work, firewood, plywood sheets, horse feed, chicken feed, dog feed, wet dogs, grass seed, cups from Starbucks chucked in the back to make room for more when needed all get loaded into my truck. I don’t really mind, I’ll take it to the super duper truck cleaner guys in Nicholasville who shine up the chrome a farm truck probably shouldn’t have.
I relish mud season in Kentucky because it means the flowers and grass will be growing soon. That means I can indulge my grassoholic tendencies. I didn’t think I’d turn into an menace to grass when I moved here, but I am firmly invested in the grass cutting culture and zero turn hot rod lawn mowers.
I noticed some sand from Florida on my dashboard, left from the bag of shells and sand I scooped up while on the beach in the recent past. It looks like sugar. I thought yes, if only Kentucky mud was white and spun like sugar. Oh the woes of Kentucky mud.