My husband and I recently bought a beautiful piece of property out in the country. I’ve been eager to visit the land each day to daydream about the home that we will build there and the life that we will live overlooking the emerald rolling hills. I stand on the hill and smile at the acres of woods that I will someday view from my bedroom window.

Yesterday I asked my mother to ride out to the land so she could daydream along with me.

As I was pulling into the field road, a kind neighbor stopped me and we had a nice chat. Before driving away, he said, “Don’t get stuck back there now. It’s awful wet.”

I laughed and promised that I wouldn’t.

My SUV was only 20 feet onto the property when my tires started spinning.

I asked my mama to open her door and see if I was really stuck.

“Oh, you’re stuck alright. Have you got a plank?”

“A plank? Why in hell would I have a plank, Mother!??”

“To help drive yourself out of this hole!”

I don’t keep planks in my vehicle to help dig myself out of ruts. However, I have a twelve day old tater tot wedged beneath the seatbelt latch in the back seat.

My little boy squealed in delight as the tires threw mud onto the windshield. I was just digging myself deeper into the hole every time I revved the engine.

I’m no stranger to mud holes. Growing up in the South, I’ve been around my share of muddy fields and ditches. I drove a Chevrolet Z71 in high school. Why? Because young Southern boys like young Southern girls with trucks. And I was a tomboy- following in my father’s footsteps of hunting, fishing and mudding in fields. You need a truck for that kind of thing. And I had an awesome truck.

My old Z71 would’ve laughed in that mud hole’s face. But my SUV was crying. It had been defeated. I knew I had to call my angry husband to pull me out of the angry mud hole.

Once I told him the situation, all I really heard was, “Rawr….bla…bla…you did what….bla…bla…I told you…..bla…..rawr….I don’t have time for this….bla….bla…bla..rawr….sigh….I’m on my way……bla…raw.r….&)(*@#)(*@&)(*!”

I wish I had taken a photo of my car buried in mud, but I didn’t think about it at the time. However, it pretty much looked EXACTLY like this….

My husband, in his finely pressed work clothes, chained my Armada to his truck and pulled like hell. When I got out of the hole, he un-hooked his truck and left. No “Bye” or “I love you” or “See you later” or “I’m so glad you called me from work to be your knight in shining armor, sweet love of my life.” None of that. He just left.

Yeah, he was pissed. Probably because he told me earlier yesterday on the phone to watch out for the very rut that I managed to plow into.

I just ended that sentence in a preposition, but I don’t care.

My car was covered in thick sludge. I had to go to the car wash and dump twelve bucks in change into the machine to power wash leaves and limbs from the car’s undercarriage. I had forgotten how painful it is when mud splashes into your retinas.

If I’m going to be driving out to our land several times a week, I’m thinking I should get a plank to keep in my car.

Mother knows best.

See you tomorrow, Nablopomo.

Armada Mudding South woods