MUD PIES ON CHINA

One of the great but simple joys we share is truly simple.

Walking.

Either alone, or with the dogs, or together, it is something done most every day, weather permitting. It's good exercise for us and very cathartic.

It's a time when we can both talk non stop to share what's on own mind.

Or it can be a time of silence, where one doesn't have to worry the other is thinking whats wrong she nots not talking?

More is said at those times than not, without ever opening our mouths.

Besides being blessed by having the Lake in front yard, there are acres and acres of open land. Peppered with apple orchards, the aroma in the fall is breathtakinginly pungent with the smell of ripe apples and burning wood. The summer breezes blow sweet flower fragrances through the house, and the winter winds greet us with the intensity of long held lust.

But this is Spring, and Spring brings its own rewards.

Mud.

Mud is everywhere, preparing the way for green grass and tulips, softening the rough edges of the lake made raw by the ice.

Mud.

There is a pair of boots I wear only for these walks, which become more like treks, the first time we start on our journey. Special too, is the jacket I don when the air is still chilled but the sun is warming as we gear up. His navy pea coat, blue with red arm stripes, fashioned especially for me. Cut and tailored, it is the coat I go walking in with him, and the coat which the dogs seem to think its okay to jump up on to steal a kiss, whenever they think I'm not looking.

It is. For whenever I look down and see the caked mud remnants on my coat sleeves, or smack mud encrusted boots together before I enter the house, I am reminded of a another time, not so long ago.

"Here ma, try this" says a little voice, full of mischevious undertone.

"What is it?" I ask, playing along.

It is a ritual that began when they could first put shovel to dirt in their own little backyards, so long ago.

"It's a pie!" the littlest will laugh, unable to stand the suspense, not having learned yet how to play along.

I open my mouth wide to let in the dirty spoonful of wet mud, fashioned on plates they sneaked from the kitchen. China plates that were to be used only a holidays, used now to present their greatest culinary creation. Offerings of love on a chilly Spring afternoon.

"No!!" they laugh in unison, saving me from the concoction.

"They're mud! Mud pies!" and they run off laughing, china dishes held securely in their grasp, heading back to the mud hole beneath the giant oak tree they always played under.

Walking with my beloved, I spy the mud pushed up against a barn. I walk up and and scoop up a piece, flattening it between my gloved hands.

It feels just like I remember.

"Here...." I say offering it to him. "Take a bite."

He smiles while opening his mouth wide.

Because he knows.

About the mud pies on china.

And I say another prayer once more, giving thanks for the blessings.