So my last post extolled the virtues of the lovely swamp – er – bog behind my parents’ house.
What I didn’t tell you about was one of the most maddening days of my life, chore-wise.
The summer I turned 18 (I think), we didn’t have much rain. The water in the swamp receded so much that probably 15 feet of the bottom was exposed behind our yard. My dad got this wonderful idea that we would dig up the muck – er – dirt from the bottom of the swamp and deposit it at the edge of our backyard, thus expanding our actual property a bit.
And guess who he foisted this nasty chore upon? That’s right – the kids. I seriously don’t remember him doing anything more than supervising. (I will allow that perhaps my memory is a bit clouded.)
So my siblings and I spent at least an entire morning shoveling muck – while standing in the muck. Yuck! (And I’m sure the word we wanted to say would have rhymed with “muck,” too.)
I was furious. I did NOT want to be shoveling muck, and I didn’t feel like I should have to be shoveling muck. All to add a couple of lousy feet to the very end of the yard, where we never sat anyway.
Toward the end of the morning, I remember standing about five feet out in the muck, talking to my dad. Mouthing off about something, I’m sure. (I was 18, after all, and mad.)
And then … I fell.
That’s right, I fell. Right on my butt. Right in all that damn muck.
Oh, I was SO mad. And of course, my sisters laughed their butts off. (Thanks a lot!) I don’t remember Dad’s reaction, but if he wasn’t laughing, I’m sure he was trying very hard not to.
But we got that extra 3′ of land at the back of the yard.