Saturday, April 19, 2008

Swimmin' in the Creek

Creeks in Mathews are the size of what most people would call rivers, and the swimming season starts officially now and ends as soon as the first stinging nettle is spotted. Which is probably tomorrow.

"Stinging nettle?" you might ask. Yes, stinging nettle. It is what non-Mathews folks would refer to as a "jellyfish," probably dating back to 1600 England or to the Very First Bubba, whichever came first (no harm intended to Bubbas. Or England). Even typing the word "jellyfish" gives me the heebeejeebies, because that is such the wrong word. The right word is stinging nettle. Referring to Bubbas does NOT invoke the heebeejeebies. It's a delicate, complex ecosystem, this Living in Mathews thing.

Today, my daughter, her friend Robin, their friend Olivia, and my older son (just along to "supervise" because he has no real interest in associating with younger girls, or being seen close to his mother, or anyone in his family tree, unless they are his friends from school, since he's tending toward TEENVILLE), went swimming in the creek in our back yard.

It was a hot day, one where every child and parent at any sporting event will report to bed with stings of the first sunburn. It was also a day full of funnel cakes, snow cones, BBQ sandwiches, crab cakes, french fries, ice cream sundaes, ring pops, and sweet iced tea because it was the Opening Day of Little League, which is the equivalent of the first day of DISNEY in Mathews. (And yes, our Little League sells crab cakes.) This also means that we're all just waiting for the diabetes-induced coma to overtake us so that we don't have to suffer anymore.

Never mind all that.

After a morning of sweltering sporting events, Robin, Olivia and Daughter went directly into the creek, where directly means do not change clothes from sweltering sporting event, go directly into the creek with your clothes on and wallow in the mud. While I fretted about who'd be the first person to cry out in agony after stepping on an oyster shell or worse, glass, they were hootin' and hollerin' with unabashed joy. They splashed and romped and cavorted in the brackish salty water until the cows came home.

We don't have cows, by the way. And for now, we don't have stinging nettles either, thank goodness.

We do, however, have plenty of Bubbas.

4 comments:

foolery said...

Yikes, jellyfish swim upriver? Yeah, that'd be a deal-killer for me.

Ummmm . . . hate to be so dense, but . . . what's a BUBBA?

Chesapeake Bay Woman said...

A Bubba is a specific sort of male Mathewsonian. I will have to write a piece just on that breed of man alone.

As a hint, though, they usually wear baseball caps and hip boots and drive pickups with gun racks and hunting dogs in the back.

Their motto is "beef jerky R us."

They're good natured people, though, with one or two exceptions....

kaffy said...

Loved your post. I only wish it were sunny and warm today, so I could stick my toes in the creek. It's pouring here, which is good for the plants but bad for my mood. I'm feeling soggy. But thanks for cheering me up with your words. You never fail.

foolery said...

Oh, THAT kind of Bubba! Well, I hate to disappoint you, but we have them here in interior California, too -- A LOT of them. They usually have mysterious circles worn into their pockets, they drop the final "g" from "-ing" words, and they can get into life-or-death arguments over Budweiser vs. Coors. Love those guys.