Gumbo Mud

By Easter Sunday, the snow was gone. We had water everywhere, and the once hard soil had turned to greasy mud. I was always eager in those days, and I took the blessed occasion to drive down to the Ashland Indian camp to visit the sick people who couldn’t get to church. Since it was Easter, I had on a spotless robe.

I went from tent to tent and to three or four dilapidated log cabins. Everyone was very friendly and kept smiling and smiling. I congratulated myself on what a good job I’d done. When it was time to leave, I jumped into the car. All the Cheyenne, young and old, came out to see me off. At least that’s what I thought they were doing.

“I only got about a third of the way up to the main dirt road. I had to drive around the deep wagon ruts; and before I knew it, my wheels started spinning. I kept hitting the gas, but there was not traction at all. Great globs of gumbo flew up and covered the windshield so I couldn’t see out. I opened the door and jumped into ankle-deep gumbo. After a few minutes my shoes felt like heavy lead and the hem of my robe, now weighted down with sticky gumbo all around, made walking difficult. I felt like I was sinking in quicksand. Meanwhile, the Cheyenne onlookers stood in absolute silence until, unable to move, I grinned sheepishly and shrugged my shoulders. Seeing that, they lost their stoic composure and doubled over with laughter.

Father Hoffman – “Gumbo Mud”