The Headmistress at the Common Room has set me thinking about the importance of mud. How could I have forgotten?

Over my parent's bed, for many years, hung a photograph snapped by my oldest brother in high school. My younger brother and I--about 3 and 2, I would guess--are hugging each other in the middle of a field of mud, both caked from grubby boots to formerly-blond curls. I am sure the embrace was staged for the camera. The mud was not.

Several years later that particular patch of mud was covered with an above-ground pool, but there were still 22 acres of mud and potential mud to choose from. When changes around the farm provided a particularly appealing pile, we would engineer mountains and cities in the mud. When we were inspired to dig, we found a spot and dug. We never topped my older brother in this skill: he and his teenage friends could dig whole networks of foxholes, where they would play army. But we certainly tried.

Other times, it was the mud puddles that allured us. I could still draw you a detailed map of the mud puddles in the part of the driveway that circled in front of the house--at least as they stood when I was eight. We dug canals and redirected the water; we floated boats from wood scraps. By the time recess was over, we were coated.

The garden mud was full of rocks (the result of glaciers, we learned), which we spent many early spring days tossing into buckets. Whenever a particularly interesting one surfaced, we would take it to Dad, a bit of a rock hound, for identification. "Ah," he would say, in a learned manner, "That appears to be a leavirite."

"Leavirite?" we would say in awe, until we got wise to him.

"Yes," Dad said, "Leave it right there where you found it."

Down by the creek the mud rose into little bluffs and banks to climb over, or lurked under grass clumps ready to pull our boots off. One boot we never did recover.

What did we learn from all this? Besides the basics of civil engineering, geography, navigation, geology, and the first true insight into the scientific method (due to an early experiment in the effects of mud on dandelions), we learned to love something real. You cannot love mankind until you love your brother; you cannot care for the earth until you love a little bit of mud of your own.

Unfortunately, the Duchy is now located in an apartment complex where the rules seem to prohibit the appearance of mud. If it is not covered with concrete or perfectly tended grass, it is at least disguised with beauty bark. The park across the street is little better on that score, although while baseball season is out the diamond is a bit muddy.

So until we can afford to move somewhere muddier, I will have to be creative for the ducklings. I can pack them mud-suitable clothes to wear at Grandma's house. Per the Headmistress's suggestion, I can rig up a tub of dirt and water for them to play with on the patio. And I can cheer them on when they make a detour to whatever mud puddles they can find.