An Expotition.

According to my mamaw--and affirmed by mama, (who assures me that she picked cotton in close proximity to it)-- there's an old, abandoned cemetery behind our neighborhood cat lady's house. Mrs. Cat-lady claims it's impossible to get to, because of all the thorn bushes, but Courtney and I braved the cold and the thorns yesterday in search of said cemetery, because apparently I have a relative buried there whose name is Alfred Smith. And I want to see Alfred's grave. (Incidentally, I won't be passing on that family name to any of my sons.)

It was impossible to get to, not because of the thorns, but because we couldn't find it. Yeah. That's a downer for you, especially since we had waded through many wicked patches of brambles and briars and my thighs were bleeding and stinging like crazy and my socks were full of prickly things.

Therefore, we decided to return not the way from whence we came, in hopes of stumbling over some adventure that would make the afternoon worthwhile. There's a section of about ten or fifteen fields grouped together and separated by fences and a nice, impenetrable gnarl of brambles and small trees, and we were on the opposite corner of this section from where we needed to be, in a field hemmed in by a deep gully.

We headed in the general direction of home, but eventually the realization sunk in that we were either gonna have to cross the gully, (which had really steep, brush-covered sides and was filled with murky, stagnant water, by the way,) or go all the way to the road and go home the long way. You can imagine that we didn't pick the long way. 'Cause I'm all about saving steps for more important things, like walking in the kitchen to make the fourth pot of hot tea in one day.

We discovered a way across the gully that seemed two ounces less covered in undergrowth than the rest of the bank, and our descent began. Believe me, you wish there had been a video camera. A true highlight of the day was when I was precariously suspended over the water, clutching a none-too-strong vine and trying to keep my footing in Crocs on the very muddy bank, and my phone rang. Yes, I know. And since it was my violin student who was supposed to be at my house in twenty minutes, I had to answer and hear all about her Christmas and the clumsy men who were putting in windows at her house, all while Courtney stood calmly above me, saying, "That vine isn't very sturdy, you know. I think that vine is slipping."

Yes, thank you, Courtney. Very helpful.

After we were safely across the gully, (without getting a drop of murky water on us; who's proud of us??) and Courtney got a hand full of scratches because she felt left out that my thigh got some scratches and her's didn't, (yes, I'm being sarcastic,) we tramped through four more fields, one of which had overgrown hay literally up to our noses, (my socks were solid brown with fuzz when we got through that,) explored around an abandoned, falling-in wooden house, went over a suspiciously green swathe of grass, ("why is that grass so green?" "oh, because we're ankle deep in mud now, maybe that's why,") climbed over more barbed wire fences than I care to remember, (without a single cut, mind you,) and clambered over a rusty gate, we arrived at home, windblown and cold, with nothing to show for our adventure except some nasty scratches and a bunch of memories.

It was worth it.