Holy Mudtrimony

Saturday morning we planned on attending my brother's sister-in-law's wedding. It was being held at the groom’s parents’ home in a neighboring city. We were not familiar with the address so I got on-line driving directions. It seemed to be in a somewhat rural area on the edge of Lake Lewisville, but it was only 9 miles away.

Kara was not feeling well so I would be “flying solo.” This presented a possible problem in that sometimes I do poorly navigating to unfamiliar locations as my optic neuritis makes it difficult to read things like small street signs and addresses, especially while driving. But it wasn’t too far and I had turn-by-turn directions; I could do it!

The first unfamiliar turn was onto a street named Garza off the main highway after 4.5 miles. I could make out the cross streets for the first few miles but just beyond the four mile mark was a cross street that had no sign. Wait, maybe it has only been 3 miles. Or 5. I kind of lost track. I really could have used a sign. I continued west on the main highway hoping the next cross street would be Garza. The next street came after a long bridge. The good news was that it had a very visible, shiny new street sign. Bad news is that is that it said El Dorado. Another “bad news” is that there was a sign welcoming me to a different city. I kept driving. The highway turned from west to north.  There were no more cross streets. When I reached Canada I turned around.

So I was faced with two choices: nameless street or El Dorado. I tried the nameless street, figuring to confirm the name down the road. There was a small sign down after the first block but at 35 mph I couldn't really read it.  I could see that it was a short name, four or five letters, and I was pretty sure it started with a G. I think. This had to be it; I was out of time. My directions said to continue on Garza for 1.9 miles before my next turn but when I had scarcely gone a mile I the road entered a lakeside marina park. Maybe the road continued on the other side of the parking area and I would eventually find my turn. I was right and wrong – the road did continue beyond the parking lot but it quickly turned into a narrow gravel path. This couldn’t be right so I continued to an open clearing to turn around. There was a trailer storage yard back there but it was definitely the end of the road.

It was not raining now but had been since Wednesday so the ground was very soft. I thought, “I’d better be careful not to get stuck in this mud” just as I was losing traction.  Oh no.  I was stuck.  Forward.  Reverse.  Nothing but spinning tires. 

So here I was in the mud, in a remote clearing, in my front-wheel drive Honda, and in a suit and tie. Alone. I had gone too far past the marina to even see anyone or any traffic. Fortunately I had my phone. Kara agreed to bring Ryan and a friend to try to get me out. She asked “Where are you?” to which I had no good answer. I told her I was about 1.3 miles down the street with no name that probably was NOT Garza. I described the marina park and told her which 7-11s I had passed on the way. She knew exactly where I was. (She has GPS-l-u-r-p-e-e.)

While I waited for them I spied a piece of wood that I thought might provide some traction. I removed my jacket, rolled up my pants, and got out of the car. My shoes sank three inches into the sticky mud. I was able to continue but each shoe now weighed 85 pounds. I couldn’t get the large piece of wood under the tire; I needed something a bit smaller. I figured my shoes were ruined anyway, so I took them off and shoved one under each tire. In doing so, I muddied my hands but, hey, at work I always used to say that I was not afraid to get my hands dirty.  I guess this proves it!

With mud covering both hands and my stocking feet, I got back in the car. Sticky mud was getting everywhere now. I tried to slowly accelerate over the shoes, but alas, my loafer leverage strategy did not work. Just then Kara called; she was on her way but she wanted to make sure I was staying in the car and not trying any harebrained strategy on my own. She was afraid I might get dirty.

Here’s the short version of what happened next:

• Kara wisely did not drive her car into the bog, Ryan and Brian came the last way on foot carrying cardboard and plywood
• It didn’t work
• Pushing was to no avail
• Spinning tires kick up a lot of mud
• Inexperienced male drivers are confident they could do better at the wheel than, say, their dad
• I let him try
• At least he has that experience now (to go with the slice of humble pie)
• Responding to a report of two wood-toting hoodlums heading toward the trailer yard, a policeman came
• He called a “wrecker” who was able to pull me out
• Carwash workers were crestfallen when I pulled up and said, “Deluxe, please.”

We barely had time to get cleaned up before it was time to head to the reception. Kara was more familiar with this area and turned onto El Dorado nonchalantly saying, “This used to be called Garza. I guess they re-named it.”

I guess they did. Maybe I should have known; the sign was shiny!

The mud memories faded quickly, however, when we got to see my sister-in-law from California and her family.  The cake didn't hurt either.