Mud Pies & Witches

The year was 1985 and it was the summer I turned four years old. I lived in a two-story apartment complex with my parents, my sister Jessica (5-6 years old), and my sister Casey (1 years old), in Brockton, Massachusetts.  The complex was large, with a cement courtyard in the center.  The courtyard was filled with children playing and riding bicycles during the long summer days.  Jessica and I would find children to play with early in the morning and stay out all day exploring and dreaming up new games.  We had a lot of freedom.

One morning, while wearing matching red terry-cloth jumpers, Jessica and I wondered what we would do for fun.  I can remember Jessica vividly from back then, her long ash-blond hair streaked with highlights from the sun, her sun-kissed freckled face and big blue eyes. We looked alike, except I was much shorter and had darker hair.  We thought about going to a place nearby that the neighborhood kids called “the bar”. This was literally a metal bar (probably for bicycles) that the kids liked to gather around, hang on and flip from.  No, we really didn’t feel like going to “the bar” that morning.  Then I suggested that we make mud pies. 

Making mud pies was our favorite activity, although we couldn’t do it very frequently.  There was a mean old lady (everyone suspected was a witch) who always screamed at us.  We would also have to endure a very angry mother when we would return home covered in mud.  Despite this, we decided the time was ripe for making mud-pies.  Jessica and I gathered our pails, Frisbees, plastic shovels and a few pieces of silver-ware from our kitchen (we had to be sneaky about this).  Then we knocked on the doors of some of the other children’s apartments to tell them the plan.

I can remember some of the other children.  There were a couple of blond girls who lived above us named Kelly and Stacy, who were Jessica’s and my ages respectfully.  Kelly loved to cover herself in band-aids, happily stolen out of my household cupboard and supplied by me.  Stacy often couldn’t come out with us, leaving me the youngest child of the posse. There was a boy named Billy, who was Jessica’s age.  He often let me ride on the back of his bike in the courtyard.  There was a chubby blond girl named Jennifer who was a little older than Jessica.  She often attempted to paint my fingernails red, but usually got more polish on my fingers than my nails.  I can also remember an older girl (perhaps eight-ten years old) named Jeannie who could speak Spanish. She often stole jars of peanut butter and fluff from her kitchen, so we could all feast on it by scooping it out with our fingers.  Jessica and I gathered these children and we all set off on our adventure.

The place to make mud pies was located at the foot of the apartment complex.  It was a small plot of dirt with a water spout coming from the building.  This plot was partially surrounded by a tall white fence.  The witch lived above it.  At the time it never occurred to me that this might be her property because everything outdoors seemed communal.  Making mud pies was heavenly.  Someone would turn on the water spout and let the dirt become saturated with water.  Directly underneath the spout, a huge puddle formed. My mud pies were more like mud cakes.  I had a great technique. I shaped the form of a cake on a Frisbee using the drier, stickier dirt.  Then I would take handfuls of the watery mud and drizzle it over the top forming a layer of “chocolate” frosting.  Soon, all the children had their masterpieces and offered each other pretend bites to taste.  Some of us couldn’t resist putting a little mud on the tips of our tongues, causing hysterical laughter from the others.

The only problem was the inevitable interruptions from the witch upstairs.  She periodically would yell at us from her window saying things like: “Shut that water off!” and “Get out of here!”  We stayed, despite the frequent yells from inside the window above us, unable to pry ourselves away from the fun we were having.  Then, she predictably leaned out the window and screamed at us. Her wild gray hair flying in every direction, screeching voice, callous expression and deeply wrinkled face terrified us completely.  We snatched our things and ran away while covered in dirt and mud. It was caked in our hair, fingernails and clothes. It was even in our mouths.  Jessica and I eventually had to return home and face the consequences from our mother.

This woman, who I believed was a witch, formed a great presence in my mind.  I imagined that she probably snatched up little children, dragged them into her apartment and threw them into a big stove in her house, like in the Fairy Tales.  Or she fed them poison. One night towards the end of the summer, I climbed into the security of my cave-like bed, which was the bottom part of the bunk bed I shared with Jessica and dreamed about the witch.

            In my dream, she was on a rampage, running around and stealing  the children from the neighborhood. She wanted to chop off each one of their fingers with giant scissors. I hid from her behind a tree, but she found me. I ran but she was too fast.  She caught me and dragged me into her home, throwing me into a room full of frightened children.  Then she locked the door.  I watched her come in periodically to pick out her victim and lead them into the room where their fingers would be chopped off.  I knew that I couldn’t escape and eventually it would be my turn.  She came for me, took me to other room, grabbed my trembling hand and took out her scissors. Then to my surprise, she began to trim my fingernails.  When she finished I turned my head to find a roomful of smiling children.  “I guess I made a mistake,” I thought before waking up.

Later that autumn, when the ground was covered in leaves, the mud-pie making group all lazily stood around trying to think of what to do.  Someone thought it might be fun to rake the entire grounds of the apartment complex together. We all agreed and went to our homes to get the supplies.  We met up again, armed with rakes and trash bags, and began.  Eventually we approached the mud pie area.  Jeannie (the older girl) thought that someone should ask the witch for permission to rake it.  The other kids agreed, loving the drama of the ordeal.  I then remembered the dream that I had.  “I’ll do it,” I volunteered.  Everyone was deeply amused by this because I was smallest, most shy and youngest of the bunch.

         I approached the common room entrance door.  Everyone watched in anticipation while I began to get nervous.  Suddenly, Jennifer bravely decided that I should not go alone and came in after me.  In what seemed like slow motion we went inside and walked up the stairs to her apartment door.  Jennifer stood behind me as I lightly knocked.  We then heard footprints slowly approaching.  I turned around to see that Jennifer had lost her nerve and had run away.  Suddenly the door opened a crack and the witch peered out.  I quickly asked her “Can we rake outside?” in a small voice.  Suddenly, she opened the door wide and her face lit up with a vibrant smile.  “Yes darling,” she replied with a laugh. I must have been a comical sight with my child-sized wooden rake in hand.  “I guess I made a mistake,” I thought again and joyfully ran down the stairs to tell the others the news of my discovery.