Mud Season

By Pamela Love

In Vermont, we call the spring thaw Mud Season, a time of year that gives new meaning to the word battleground, for it’s necessary to battle the ground simply to walk. Either you struggle while the muck sucks at your shoes and even skirts if they aren’t hitched up a bit, or you tumble when it’s too slick, which causes the unwary much irritation.

One late-March morning, I made my way through the muck—with difficulty—to the little red schoolhouse where I’d taught for twenty years. Beside its steps crouched a boy I didn’t recognize, about eight years old, gazing at that omnipresent March mud. Either he’s dropped something or made a discovery. I gave him a welcoming smile, hoping to start his time at my school off on a good foot. “Good morning. I’m Miss Morgan, the teacher. What’s your name?”

“Ash Forester, miss.” He barely glanced at me before turning his attention back to the mud.

Forester—I didn’t know any family in town by that name, but by the looks of it, they needed help; on a day when I was shivering despite my woolen shawl, Ash wore threadbare shirt and trousers. Worse still, his feet were bare. While most folks around here “don’t hold with taking charity,” tact will usually persuade them to accept hand-me-downs. And it was a good sign Ash’s parents sent their freckle-faced son to school willingly, since they weren’t keeping him at home to do chores instead of allowing him to get an education.

I started up the steps. “Come inside, Ash.” There was a mat to wipe his feet on and a stove to warm them, once I’d built that morning’s fire.

When he didn’t follow, I turned to see him glancing up, his brow furrowed. “I’m busy, miss.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Busy doing what?”

He didn’t answer, just chewed his lower lip while staring at that wretched mud. No worm or any other small creature that children seem to find so fascinating could be seen by his toes. Perhaps he’s dropped something. It can’t be a lunch pail—even Vermont mud couldn’t have swallowed that, though not for want of trying! I suppressed a chuckle. “Ash, I asked you a question; you’re busy doing what?”

He sighed. “I seed, miss.”

I encourage my pupils’ interest in nature for the most part, although I do not share it. I descended the steps and bent over him. “Oh, you saw something, did you? What was it?”

He swung around, his face red with indignation. “I never saw, ever, miss. I seed.”

I sucked in my breath to reprimand him, but decided against it for there was no insolence in his manner. He truly thought that “seed” was the correct past tense of the verb—doubtless because he’d heard it that way at home. It made me think this was quite likely his first day of school, ever.

However, I believe in beginning as one means to go on. “You are coming to school, Ash. Your first and most important lesson is not to contradict the teacher.

“Your second lesson is that ‘saw’ is the correct word to use. For example, you could have said, ‘I saw a flower.’” He shook his head, hard. I held up a forefinger, as I had countless times before. “Or beetle, pebble, or whatever it happened to be. Repeat after me: I saw a—”

“No, miss. I never saw anythin’. Or hew, chop, or cut.” He tapped his chest. “I seed. Oh, and this one’s a-comin’. Step back, miss!” With frog-like agility, he leapt aside.

Hew, chop, or cut…This boy truly did not understand what I was trying to impart, but perhaps I, too, was misinterpreting his meaning?  Nevertheless, I could not permit such impudence. I folded my arms. “Ash, you must speak to a teacher with courtesy—”

“But miss! See there?” He pointed downward to where tiny brown bubbles were popping.

Just then, a full-grown tree well-nigh shot up from the ground, its crimson-budded branches smacking me in the face. I stumbled back, slipped, and fell, landing on my bustle in that maddening mud.

Ash laughed. “Now you see, miss? I seed.” With a laugh, he trotted off into the forest, his skin becoming more and more green with every step.

Gritting my teeth, I sat up, shaking the muck from my gloves. “‘Sow’ would have been a more appropriate choice of words!” I called after him, though I had to admit to myself that seed could be used as a verb.

I hurried home at an unladylike pace to change, knowing that I had made a muddle of that entire encounter. Nevertheless, while some may think me old-fashioned, I believe children should be seen and not seed!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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