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Slog BoggeryFebruary 03, 2006 "Mud season" is traditionally identified with late winter and early spring, when the snow melts, the frozen ground thaws, and the resulting muck is strong enough to pull the boots off your feet or the soles off your boots. But mud season can happen anytime between, say, November and mid-May. All it takes is gray skies, rain, mud, and a leafless landscape. Take now, for instance. I'm not complaining about the unseasonably warm temperatures, mind you, but today was a mud seasonal day. I started a four-day horse-sit and so got to slog through two sodden barnyards instead of one. The really fun part was at my barn. The wind was blowing hard from several directions at once (typical mud-season wind). I was nearly done with midday chores: horses had lunch hay, stalls and paddocks were picked out, buckets were emptied and ready for refilling. I went into the tackroom, where the faucet and hose reside, to refill the buckets. A strong wind blew the door, which is usually propped open by a metal trash barrel, shut. I couldn't open the damn door. I mean I really couldn't open the damn door. I pulled hard, I shook it, I kicked it, I pulled some more. Wouldn't budge. A prisoner in the tackroom -- what to do? There's a phone in the tackroom, but Ginny was in school and Jim's off-island. Besides, did I really have the nerve to call anyone and say, "I'm stuck in the tackroom, please come rescue me"? Not unless I was about to die of thirst, and that wasn't going to happen because the faucet's in the tackroom. There is a window in the tackroom. It overlooks the water trough that Allie and Dolci share: the trough is a double sink, but in winter there's a big heated bucket in one side and the other side is empty. The hose caddy and the faucet are directly under the window, which makes the maneuvering a little bit awkward. The double window and the electrified wire under it don't help either. But I pulled over a bench and managed to squeeze myself through. Back in the barn, Rhodry was keeping watch by the tackroom door. Maybe he was alarmed by my banging and cursing, but he figured I could work this one out myself. I had to hurl myself against the door, shoulder first, to make it open, but open it did. Free at last, free at last. Get behind me, mud season.
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