One Shoe Off and One Shoe On

This time of year, the ground is squishy from snow melt. Our last snowfall left 7 inches, which took several weeks to melt in the shady areas of our driveway. This is my excuse for leaving the Christmas wreaths on our gate until Valentine’s Day. I used to make fun of those people who didn’t ‘undecorate’ by New Year’s Day. Now I get it. Somewhat. There are still people in our community who leave those big blow-up things in their yards until the mowing season begins.

But I digress.

I seriously needed to take down those Christmas wreaths. I wore my old garden clogs. They are great for squishy, muddy ground. And I wore a few layers because it was still cold out there. It was February, after all. I squished all the way down our driveway with a pair of side cutters. I declare, that driveway gets longer every year!

The wreaths came off rather easily. Each wreath was fastened to the gate with a few of those zip ties. The side cutters made quick work of taking them down. Those wreaths weighed a whole lot less when I took them down the driveway last Thanksgiving. I slipped the side cutters in my pocket, hefted a wreath under each arm, and started squishing my way back up the driveway.

The driveway is steep so I took my time walking uphill with a bulky wreath under each arm. I was struggling a little and wishing that we had zip-tied much smaller wreaths to the gate. Occasionally, I saw a branch lying in the driveway so I would slip my foot under it and do a sort of lift-kick to throw it over the side. Hubby would appreciate that.

The driveway was getting steeper. The wreaths were getting bulkier. I was squishing slower. I reached the steepest part of the driveway and saw a good-sized branch requiring removal. I slipped my foot under it, performed another lift-kick, and cast it off the side and down the steep bank. Along with my right garden clog.

There I was. All alone. That little nursery rhyme started going through my head:

Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,

Went to bed with his stockings on;

One shoe off, and one shoe on…

At least ‘my son John’ was in bed where he was warm and dry.

Hubby was down at Cousin Ambrose’s house assisting with lawn mower repair. Why did those 2 guys think February was a good time to work on a mower? It didn’t matter - my cousins do not live within screaming distance. I started weighing my options, which didn’t take long. There was only 1 option - I had to go with the DIY method. 

I left the side cutters and those bulky wreaths on the driest part of the driveway I could find. It wasn’t squishy. It was still covered in iced-over snow. Then I began my descent. The ground may have been squishy, but that didn’t mean it was soft. How many sticks and stones does it take to hold up a hill? Why did I have to give that branch my best kick and send my garden clog 30 feet straight down? Why did I choose to help Hubby on the steepest part of the driveway? Cold mud oozed through my socks as I eased down the slope. I thought of another poem by Polly Chase Boyden my mom used to read to me when I was a little girl:

Mud is very nice to feel

All squishy-squash between the toes!

I'd rather wade in wiggly mud

Than smell a yellow rose.

Nobody else but the rosebush knows

How nice mud feels

Between the toes.

Ms. Boyden probably wrote that poem in June, not February. And she probably lived in Florida.

Once I lost sight of my shoe but I knew it was down there somewhere, so I kept working my way toward the last place I saw it. I always try to look for the bright side. That’s where the moss came in. Moss is nice and soft. It’s slick too, so I fell on my keister a few times, but the slick moss got me downhill a lot faster. (End of search for the bright side).

Getting down the hill was fairly easy. ‘Easy’ in this case meaning ‘swift’. I had gravity working with me. I found that garden clog and shoved my muddy foot in it. It might actually have been more uncomfortable wearing a shoe with all that mud caked on – and in – my socks.

Then I started uphill. For every 3 feet I ascended, I slid down 2 feet. And don’t forget – I was wearing clogs. Not a good choice in footwear when you are mountain climbing. Both feet were sliding out of the clogs, so I finally threw the clogs up to the driveway to wait for me until I could join them. Climbing a hill in the snow with muddy socks as my only footwear was never on my bucket list.

How long could it take Hubby to help Ambrose with that lawn mower? I needed him to haul me up with some sturdy rope.

Eventually, I made it back up to the driveway. I was exhausted. As miserable as I was, I just sat down on that squishy driveway and took a break. Now I had squishy mud between parts of me other than just my toes. I was really past the point of caring. I squished the rest of the way back up the driveway to the cabin, barefoot, and carrying 2 bulky wreaths, some side cutters, and a pair of muddy clogs. I don’t know what happened to the socks. I peeled off all my clothes on the front porch – now might be a good time to explain that our cabin is very remote and no retinas were harmed in the making of this production – and tiptoed as carefully as I could to the shower. The tiptoeing was only to reduce the time and effort required to clean the mud off the floor later. By the way, I do not recommend undressing outside in February. Who wants to show up in the ER with a severe case of frost butt? Sorry - frost bite.

In the end I made up my own poem:

Nobody knows like an old klutz knows

How gross cold mud is between the toes,

Or skid down a snowy slippery slide

And have to clean mud off the backside.

I’d rather soak in a hot sudsy tub

Than wear a frozen layer of mud.