As Plain as the Mud on my Face!

Oh! How I wish I had pictures of this great story to share with you, but alas, they are feeble.

Camping. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but we really enjoy it. Spending time outside soaking up the smell and sights and sounds of God’s creation is exhilarating to us.Two weeks ago we hooked up with four other families and ventured off to spend four days in the great outdoors. Bliss!

The very first day, several people went hiking, but one other dad (Dad #2) and myself stayed behind to watch the crowd of kids who wanted to take a dip in the creek and swim in the pool. Yes, this campground had a pool. Posh, I realize. The sun was shining, the wind was refraining from tousling our hair and the gurgling of the creek was calling to us.

Look very closely at the small patch of brick-colored muddy bank on the left side of this picture. It seems harmless. It was not. That was the slipperiest mud on God’s green earth. I told the girls several times, “Be careful! The mud is slippery!” The girls dragged me, my backpack and my folding chair to a place up the creek to a delectable rope swing with four huge knots. To my surprise, all three girls took turns swinging out over the water, but not dropping in as it was a tad chilly. I was standing still in the slippery mud. Then I was lying face down in the awful tasting slippery mud. In between those two events there was a loud scream and involuntary throwing of the backpack and the folding chair. I landed on my knees, my elbows and my face. Lovely. I so wish I had a picture of my mud-caked self. Slowly I stood and started to wipe the mud off my arms and face and spit out the mud and gravel that didn’t taste so yummy.

The kids who I was “watching” and five other boys circled me with mouths a gaping and wide eyes. Mama down. Red Alert! Using my water bottle, one of the boys (a stranger!) slowly poured into my hands so I could “wash” them and then rinse my face. I knew I needed a shower but then one of the other boys yelled, “Your leg is bleeding really badly!” Glancing down, I noticed the front of one shin was muddy brown and the other was bright red. Blood red, to be exact.  A large gash was just starting to pain me in my right knee. We poured some of the bottled water on the cut and then I held it shut with Kleenex, because we all know that Kleenex is sanitary and won’t fall apart or get inside a large gash.

The girls ran to find Dad #2. The boys ran off too, I wasn’t sure where. Slowly I limped up the path, holding my Kleenexed knee. The first campsite I arrived at harbored a full-on 38-foot motor coach, complete with a fancy “camping” lady with large, coiffed blonde hair, a long skinny cigarette, a three carat diamond ring on her manicured tennis-bracelet-ed hand and a newly-shaved white poodle with a green bow on each ear. At first site of a muddy, bloody woman limping out of the jungle she dropped that poor dog, put her smoke on a wood pile (!) and ran for her hose to help me get cleaned up. When asked what I needed I requested a cup of water to rinse and spit several times. The kind lady hosed off my pants, legs and shoes. I remember mentioning her smoking woodpile at some point, and there wasn’t a fire later, so she must have taken care of it.

Some of the boys who had witnessed my downfall returned with their very German father and a very well equipped first aid kit. At this point Dad #2 from our group drove up with the rescue vehicle. I was patched up and put in the car on several of the kind lady’s towels. Five stitches, three x-rays and three hours later, we were back at the campground eating grilled cheese sandwiches.  Easy peasey.

Five stitches. No biggie. I figured it would slow me down for a day or two. I figured incorrectly. An infection set in and my wounded leg turned burning-hot red and swelled up from my knee to my foot. Then I got to go visit another ER! A shot in my backside and some strong antibiotics were administered. I was on the couch for NINE DAYS!  NINE DAYS! Because of some slippery mud! The infection stayed for two weeks, but it finally relented and I could walk again.

So the moral of the story is: don’t cry over slippery mud…. no…. falls well that bends well… no… as plain as the mud on my face…… my way or the mud way….. five stitches in time saves nine?… (I’ll quit now.)