All the way home I dreaded the thought of going up my drive. It's clay. It's nice, red, slick, western North Carolina clay. The type of clay people made cooking pots out of & set beans to boil over an open flame in the pioneer days. If my driveway is any indication of the circumstances in which pioneer women were made to travel in their covered wagons and skinny little wooden wheels, it's a thousand wonders a few more lynchings didn't occur. I, for one, would probably have joined the Indians and brought home my husband's scalp to proudly display in the new teepee I would build on LEVEL ground. Shudder the thought. Sorry.
I was determined that with God's help I'd get up the drive and park happily beside the deck. Well, I did make it on the second try. My daughter and her boyfriend came to my aid, dressed in plastic garbage bags and we pushed it downhill, through the ditch, narrowly escaping a small plunge into the creek. We lost shoes to a burnt umber colored downward sucking sludge and no brand of fake tanning lotion can compare to the orange glow of our legs, arms and faces.
The car is in the driveway. Shoes & jeans are in the washer. The dog is bathed and all is semi-well with the world.
A mud, muck & gravel expert is coming tomorrow. Tonight the forecast is for rain.
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