Playing in the Mud in the Fifties and Sixties

Playing in the Mud in the Fifties and Sixties 

Rereading Betsy’s Busy Summer, especially the stories about children playing in mud, has brought back memories of my own muddy experiences. As a kid in the late fifties and early sixties, I think I was mostly a good, obedient kid who never caused my parents too much trouble. However, looking back it seems that any time I was naughty, there was mud or dirt involved!

 

After a big rain, I loved to go out and run barefoot through mud puddles. It was such a free, exhilarating feeling! There is nothing like the feel of mud squishing up between your toes when stepping barefoot into a mud puddle! I loved making mud pies. I would mix water with the dirt to just the right consistency and put the mud in aluminum pans and top them with a real cherry from our cherry trees. I would set them out in the sun on the tree stump that was my pretend oven and let the sun bake them.

 

One large mud puddle near our driveway was big enough that most summers it did not dry up and one summer I discovered that it had frog eggs. I was so excited the day I discovered they had hatched into tadpoles. The progression to having hind legs, then front legs, and then having no tail as they grew into tiny frogs was a fascinating science lesson for me.

 

One summer when I was about 8 or 9, after lots of rain, the plowed field right across the driveway by our house, was transformed into a huge swamp that I could not resist. I decided to take a walk through it in my little red boots. I don’t think that field could have been any stickier and mushier. It was the perfect swampy combination of being plowed and saturated by heavy rains (or should I say bad combination!).  I did not get far before I could no longer lift my feet! I was really stuck in the mud. I felt like I was in quicksand! I yelled for Mom and Dad. I was far enough out into the field they could not reach me! While they stood there yelling at me and trying to decide what to do, I stepped out of my boots, into the “swamp,” in my white socks and went vigorously hopping back to the dryer, solid driveway! I don’t remember if I ever saw my pretty red boots again! Mom and Dad were not happy. When my children were toddlers, they would go out of their way to walk THROUGH a mud puddle instead of around it. I wonder, where did they get that from? I guess I got payback but it did bring back memories of my own childhood.

 

Then there was the incident with the muddy, smelly hog wallow. Mom and Dad were doing some work with the hogs or fixing gates or something back in the woods. My little sister Rosie and I were with them. It was a hot summer day, and the hogs had a huge mud puddle at least a foot deep. The hogs, which were friendly and almost like pets, were enjoying laying and rolling in the cool mud. Rosie and I were getting bored and acting silly. Mom kept warning us to stay away from the hog wallow.

 

I don’t remember exactly what happened next. I know that I would have never purposely walked or jumped into that yucky place, but I think Shirley and I kept edging closer and daring each other to see how close to the edge we could get. The next thing I knew, we were both down on our butts in that mud! Of course, since I was the oldest, I got the blame for this! I do have to admit, however, that I think I went first and drug Shirley down with me. Our whole bodies, including our faces, and clothes were soaked through and through with “hog mud" and I don't want to think about what else was in that mud! 

 

A little while later, we were all on our way back to the house in the pickup truck. Shirley and I were in the back without a stitch of clothes on. I am very modest but was not a bit embarrassed. We didn’t feel naked because we were so covered with mud you could not tell we were not wearing clothes! Mom must have thought that taking our clothes off would help the situation, but I don’t think it made things any better! Mom, of course, was very angry with us. We got unmercifully hosed off many times before several baths.

 

….And there is the issue with me eating dirt. It started when the whole family was working in the garden and hoeing up that rich black dirt in preparation for planting the vegetables. I sat down and started playing in the dirt, and it smelled so good!  I just could not resist tasting it. I regret telling my grown children about this as they tease me without mercy. They are horrified at me doing this, but I really was picky about my dirt and just ate good clean dirt. I would dig down deep and get dirt that had not been touched by anything. It is not like I ate bunches of it, just little tiny tastes of it. This was only when I was very young, and I promise I have not tasted dirt for over fifty years. However, I still like the smell of good clean dirt in a field that is freshly plowed. Maybe it is just the farm girl in me.

 

Fast forward about fifty years to this scene: seven of our twelve grandchildren (who live several hours from us in all different directions) are spending their annual week with us during the summer.  It is a special time for Grandpa and me; and the grandkids do not live close to each other, so they love getting together here for a week and spending time with their cousins. We all go to Bible School in the morning. In the afternoon we do an assortment of different activities like movies, indoor fun spots, exploring a public cave, the zoo, and hiking in public parks.

 

One year on a hiking expedition in a public park with the grandkids, we found some mud puddles and oh boy, the fun started. At first it was just a little mud when they jumped off the swings into the mud but soon it spiraled into full blast, uninhibited mud fun. I was torn between what their parents (my grown children!) would say about the good clothes and sneakers being covered in mud and possibly ruined, and being cool grandparents.  

 

With lots of soap and soaking, the clothes cleaned up pretty good.  I am afraid, however, most of the sneakers were too far gone to restore to their former condition.  Thankfully, the grandkids had all brought more than one pair of shoes, and none of the parents seemed too concerned. I was relieved that the parents were AMUSED to arrive in our driveway and see all those sneakers spread out sunning on our deck with dryer sheets stuck in them. I guess it was all worth it to me when the grandkids thanked us for letting them cut loose in the mud. Of all the fun activities Grandpa and I take them to, they all agreed that the fun in the mud was the “funnest”  thing they had ever done during the “Bible School/Cousin Camp” weeks at our house.