Essays On Puritans

That’s mud time, our fifth season, which is just coming to its end.

The lingering odor of poisoned rodents decaying under the mudroom, their open-air graves marked by middens of broken medicine bottles, pottery shards, and withered corncobs accumulated over the last century.

It first appeared in the mid-1950s, timed with the arc of tract house development and the appearance of less formal entryways at the sides and backs of houses.

These committees were scrupulously exhaustive, creating detailed room-by-room accounts of the items in the house.

The uppermost couple of inches of ground have thawed, but the underlying frost stretches to a depth of 18 inches or more. And then you have days marked by dark brown mud, the kind of mud that ensnares vehicles up to their axles and serves as the beginning of stories swapped at the cash register of our Agway in Portsmouth, Rhode Island.

When mud-season mud dries, it leaves a chalky, caked residue on the palms of your hand and crusty clods on the soles and sides of your boots.

What to do with the expandable two-story, taloned rake used to clean ice from the gutters?

Our particular mudroom sat atop a crawl space where rats congregated.

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