Immobilized. Unable to move. I could breathe, but nothing more. This wasn’t my fault, but I knew exactly how it happened.
New construction surrounded my school during first grade, and the rain that started overnight and lasted until after the noon recess had left the grounds covered with thick, sticky mud. When the sun overcame the clouds, we enjoyed the afternoon break outdoors, and I stood on the paved playground, near the muddy edge. I never saw it coming.
John, one of my friends, ran at me when my back was turned and gave me a sound push. I flew off the edge of the tarmac and sprawled in the sticky goo.
The mud hugged me like a long-lost brother. I struggled and squirmed, but couldn’t pull free. My teacher, a young-ish lady, in high heels, hosiery and a dress, offered suggestions mixed with encouragement, but kept her clothes clean. Soon all of my classmates joined her, powerless to help and caught up in the spectacle.
But I’d worked one hand free. Reluctantly, the drying mud gave up its grip, and I struggled back toward the asphalt. When I came within range, my classmates took my arms and heaved, pulling me back onto the dry tarmac.
Head to foot covered in mud, I waited in the office for my father. On the midnight shift for two weeks, he wouldn’t be happy with my waking him. I was right, but he didn’t scold me. Instead, I felt his disapproval every inch of the ride home.
After changing clothes in the garage and a bath, I thought about telling him it wasn’t my fault and his disappointment in me was unfair. I dressed and considered my options while he went to his room. He’d be in a better mood after more sleep.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.