There was some hubbub going on at the creek behind our house. A bunch of neighborhood kids had exposed a long ribbon of thick red clay in the creek bank; they were scooping it out in handfuls.
Really? That’s where clay comes from? Fabulous.
Let me at it.
And this time they did let me at it. There was plenty for everybody -- so much clay I didn’t even object when my little brother and sister joined in.
Marveling over the phenomenon of clay right from the earth and all the things we could make with it, the three of us headed toward home lugging enormous wet globs in our bare arms.
Mom appeared in the window when we were still in the field.
“Look! Look what we got, Mom! It’s clay!” We beamed as if it were gold.
She started shouting, something about our clothes.
I looked down at myself. True, I was filthy, head to toe. Like puppies set loose just back from the groomer, we were all as filthy and as happy as we could get.
But she kept shouting, her voice and then ours (“What? Why?”) filling the neighborhood. It seemed she’d just washed and dressed us specially for some immediate outing. Having pushed us outside for a few minutes so she could get herself ready in peace, she’d -- apparently -- told us to stay clean.
Didn’t she see the clay?
We had to get hosed down in the basement before we could even come upstairs for baths. The neighborhood kids started a rumor that our mother beat us with that hose, but in truth she somehow restrained herself. And I don’t think we ever found out where we were supposed to have gone that day, had we managed it.
All I could think was how I had absolutely no recollection of having been dressed up, being told to stay clean, nothing whatever previous to the discovery of the miracle behind our house.
But Mom: clay.
Really? That’s where clay comes from? Fabulous.
Let me at it.
And this time they did let me at it. There was plenty for everybody -- so much clay I didn’t even object when my little brother and sister joined in.
Marveling over the phenomenon of clay right from the earth and all the things we could make with it, the three of us headed toward home lugging enormous wet globs in our bare arms.
Mom appeared in the window when we were still in the field.
“Look! Look what we got, Mom! It’s clay!” We beamed as if it were gold.
She started shouting, something about our clothes.
I looked down at myself. True, I was filthy, head to toe. Like puppies set loose just back from the groomer, we were all as filthy and as happy as we could get.
But she kept shouting, her voice and then ours (“What? Why?”) filling the neighborhood. It seemed she’d just washed and dressed us specially for some immediate outing. Having pushed us outside for a few minutes so she could get herself ready in peace, she’d -- apparently -- told us to stay clean.
Didn’t she see the clay?
We had to get hosed down in the basement before we could even come upstairs for baths. The neighborhood kids started a rumor that our mother beat us with that hose, but in truth she somehow restrained herself. And I don’t think we ever found out where we were supposed to have gone that day, had we managed it.
All I could think was how I had absolutely no recollection of having been dressed up, being told to stay clean, nothing whatever previous to the discovery of the miracle behind our house.
But Mom: clay.
RSS Feed
