A Memory Reenacted

August 13^th

I saw it today, a flash in the past, a quick jaunt in the black of years ago, a gleam of color in what was forcibly forgotten.  I saw him, a little Laotian boy, as he eyed the puddle of mud near the bear sanctuary that his family worked at, cooking snacks for the travelers.  He was about two or three, much younger than I ever remember being, but his presence and what he did sparked something in me and for a moment I forget the pain that ensued in my years to follow.  He saw the mud, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.  He looked at it carefully, not sure what to do, and then saw the potential for playing in it.  I watched from afar, recognizing something I hadn’t seen in a while.  He teetered over to the puddle, watching it as though it would move suddenly or just as quickly as it became something fun to do it might turn boring.  When he saw that that that did not happen, he promptly sat down and dug his hands in, feeling the coolness ooze through his fingers.  A similar coolness ran through my veins, one of familiarity with that hesitancy, with that impatient patience, not sure about getting dirty but absolutely positive that this would turn out to be the highlight of the afternoon.  He sat there, the bear sanctuary to his back, and I watched him, still from afar, not sure how to engage this ripening memory.  I took a few photos, breaking my rule of asking first, to see if it would assemble the pieces floating around in my head, but it didn’t.  His mother approached him, smile lines aplenty, like another great mother I knew, and she gave him the look.  “You know you’re gonna need a bath after this, and you know I don’t want to give you one” her eyes pleaded.  I watched.  Give the look back!  I thought.  I didn’t know what look it was quite yet, but my memory was beginning to form.  He gave it!  He gave the look!  “Mom.  This is mud.  You know how much fun this is.  Don’t let a bath get in the way”.  Cuteness prevailed!!  But it was only momentary.  She approached him, smiling brightly, as though rays from the sun were so used to her face that a mutual dependency was forming.  I thought silently, “Little Laotian Dude, she’s gonna try and pick you up.  Give the look again, only this time do the dead weight thing.  You know it works.”  I don’t know how I knew this so well, but the synapses happily told me that a younger me was well-versed in mud play.  She came near.  She pulled at him to get up.  Fight for it!  Dead weight!  He did it!  She, mama, was unsuccessful.  He dug his toes in the mud, and his hands followed.  She sighed, smiled, and tugged at his shirt.  And then it came flooding back.  She tugged at his shirt and for a moment both me and the boy thought the fight was over, that she had won and it was bath time.  But no…she was only taking his shirt off so that he wouldn’t get it dirty.  Glorious!  Mud time! 

I remembered! 

Grandma’s house, sick with “pink eye” (my early school years attempt at ditching to hang out with my grandparents).  A belly full of soup, I head outside.  The sun seems to blind me as I walk down the creaky wooden steps and I worry that I may fall.  But I see the prize ahead of me.  The mud puddle at the bottom of the stairs, a little underneath them.  If I can only get away from grandma for a few moments, saunter down the stairs (avoid the heavy temptation to run my hands down their old-fashioned heater, making the coolest noise EVER), then I’ll be safe.  But I’ve practiced the look, so even if I’m not safe I should still be fine.  We haven’t finger-painted yet, and she just finished re-telling me the rules of how I can get into Heaven while we ate soup and goat-crackers outside (even if I hit people, I can still go!  I just have to talk to someone about it first).  The coast is clear, and, due to the imperfect sun-conditions, I decide to head down the stairs in backwards-crawl-position, so as not compromise my sight.  I’m not the best at going down stairs.  Plus, I have to make it to the mud-puddle before grandma sees me.  She wants to pick walnuts.  I still want to finger paint and we only have so much time before her show starts.  

But this, wonderful slimy mud, is a rarity!  Alas, after going down the stairs I’m in the mud.  Oozing through my fingers and over my legs, I make drawings and mud-crayons and those lines on my cheeks like they do in the movies.  Uh-oh.  She’s coming.  Creak, creak, she slowly comes down the stairs.  How on earth does she know I’m down here?  She sees me.  Even though I plug my ears, she still sees me.  Amazing, this woman and her talents.  She gives me the look.   “You know you’re gonna need a bath after this, and you know I don’t want to give you one” her eyes plead.  I give her the look back.  “Grandma.  This is mud.  You know how much fun this is.  Don’t let a bath get in the way.”  She approaches me.  She is shaking her head.  No walnut picking.  I stay strong with my look.  I’m pleading with my look.  And then it happens.  The shirt tug!  Not the shirt tug!  This is war!  Or is it?  From somewhere in her apron, it emerges.  The Yellow Mud Shirt.  Off with my shirt, on with Yellow Mud Shirt.  Victory is sweet.  I can play as long as I want to in the mud, because grandma is sitting down in one of those stringy chairs and watching me.  Her face looks like the sun and it makes my eyes hurt a little from looking at it, but somewhere I know that she is my silver lining. 

Next, it’s bath time.  Wonderful bath time.  Oddly, there are no toys in this bath.  This must be a grown up bath.  I must be a grown up.  I’m still small enough to have her wrap me up in a towel (my favorite thing!) and stand me on that little wooden stool that comes out from the wall while she combs my hair (not my favorite thing.  Grandma doesn’t use Johnsons no tangle shampoo.  Being a grown-up must not be that much fun).  But then…she lets me open up her secret mirror that is on the wall and I see them…perfectly lined up like they want me to look at them.  Her lipstick collection!  I can’t look long because her show is about to start and I cannot put any on because, even though I took a grown up bath and she brushed my hair with a comb and not a brush, I am not a grown up.  I can look at them, and open them too.  My favorite is the orange one.  There are pinks, and reds, and even purples, and I think that it’s funny that grandma, when it comes to coloring her lips in, can barely stay inside the lines. 

I go over to the mud puddle and sink my hands in, the memory flowing through me like they all should.  I tell him that it’s neat to feel the mud and squeeze it out through your hands like this.  He tries it, but would rather make a mud tower.  That’s acceptable.  He talks to me in Lao, I talk back in English, it’s a full-blown conversation with the younger, male, Lao version of me.  If only I had Yellow Mud Shirt to give him.  He shows me how awesome it is to fling the mud from your hands onto everything around you.  Hmm.  That is fun!  I show him about mud crayons and it captivates him until his legs are covered in little drawings.  He shows me his mud towers.  I help him make as many as possible until he gets fed up with my small contributions and refuses to accept them.  I tell him that on my side of the puddle it’s mostly rocks and leaves.  He shows me how to incorporate the rocks and leaves into the mud tower.  Brilliant.  People are taking pictures.  I am smiling like I seem to have forgotten to.