(muck)

On an occasionally cruel spring, prairie weather created hidden flat patches of dodgy ice in the barnyard. Poor urbanite brethren missed out on such rich culture! Intermittent melting, spring rains, and the presence of moving livestock added a layer of slimy brown ‘muck’. Innocent children fresh off the school bus, overcoming a three month off and on bout with winter cabin fever, were anxious to go work in it. After all, it was the earliest harbinger of summer, perhaps a month sooner than crocuses.
That generation of Mothers despised it and mine was no exception. Not having the patience, will, or obedience to change out of school clothes, we brothers headed straight for the barnyard, our trenching tools, broken hockey sticks from the pile over by the melted rink, in hand. The eldest managed to locate the farm’s only shovel so he became chief engineer, the rest of us willing slaves. The shovel did double duty as digger and gentle goad for the happy crew. We became Dutchmen landscape engineers digging trenches, releasing the various pools of nutrient rich liquid.
Invisible to the eye, an inch beneath the oozy brown mess, the slippery ice beckoned – unconditionally. One false step and it was off to the house, head lowered in embarrassment and sorrow for Mother, who out of love and love alone, would hose jeans off before dragging the half naked child inside for a replacement. In those days we remained untrained in fair labour distribution. Ten minutes later, wet jeans left outside by the doorstep, we returned once more to this playful arena of stench. We only pretended to heed her warning, “Be careful where you step this time.”
After the fourth shuttle run for cleaner attire, sitting in the living room shivering in our underwear, fresh out of clean clothes, we relented. Manure had won.
“When you get off that bus tomorrow, you boys come straight inside!”