Anyone for mud angels?

It is December, isn't it? Shouldn't the world be filled with white, downy flakes that stay on one's nose and eyelashes? Oh, wait. I forgot. I'm in Gray-chester.

Here, we have five seasons: Mud, Blizzard, Slush, Rain and September. The standard joke is "if you don't like the weather here, wait five minutes." I find this joke particularly amusing, because the weather never changes. The sky is always gray. The birds sing, the sky is gray. The leaves change, the sky is gray. Is it any wonder that this place has the highest per capita murder rate in our state? Keep in mind, when you consider this, that I live in a state that has another city with millions of people. But we're number one. Go us.

So it's December and the sky is gray. I had myself all set to have a rotten day. I yelled at my mother for no good reason. I beat up a horse (she didn't really fight back). And then, just as I was all set to have a major tantrum, I fell.

I was standing stock still in the middle of the pasture. It was dark, but honest to god, I wasn't moving. And I fell. On my back. In the mud. My mother, who was holding a rather excitable horse (Lucky again -- doesn't it figure?) turned around to look at me. She told me later she thought I had flopped down to do snow angels.

But it's Gray-chester. There is no snow. There is mud. I should know, because I just reclined in it. Oddly enough, it lightened my mood. I laughed my muddy butt off all the way back to the barn.