Mudlarking

Lila Seip

While in the trance of running, I forget every command except go. My eyes are shuttered in like those of a race horse rearing in the starting box. All I can see is the seemingly unending road in front of me, so my mind can’t help but wander. On this particular day I had even forgotten I was supposed to be going fast. The street was empty and all I could see were half lit houses for the next few blocks. Gray smattered the landscape and the need to keep warm was the only reason my legs were still moving. The only thing that could bring me out of my daze was a small jumble of fabric, laying limp in the road. I tried to kick it forward so it could join me on my run. Having rained an hour prior, the road shined with a slickness that rivaled oil; the trees leaked onto my head and made it so any onlooker who saw me thought I got caught in the rain. When really I just got caught in the aftermath. This was perfect mudlarking weather. Instead of kicking the fabric, my after-rain soaked shoe just glazed over it. The combined slipperiness caused the fabric to limply fold in on itself. Was I really going to stop running just to pick up a piece of trash? I had been making so much progress in my speed and my breathing. If I stopped now I could potentially reverse all my hard work. I stopped. It was a red rubbery number ten that probably fell off someone’s football or sports tarp. It required a good six seconds of inspection. I tied it to the drawstring of my shorts and continued on, happier for the rest of the run because of the trash that bounced at my waistband.

            Mudlarking is a term I learned about through a Garden and Gun article. The magazine had no part in the word’s creation, but they made the term aware to me. Mudlark was originally a word used to describe those who dug in the shore of the River Thames for practical litter. Over time mudlarking became a word to describe anyone who had a fondness for collecting trash. This article opened my eyes to a part of myself I didn’t even know had a name. I had collected garbage all my life and I was always scolded for it, but now it was celebrated.

              All throughout my childhood I remember being yelled at by figures of authority for picking up trash off the street. Whether it be my annoyed parents, an overly cautious passerby, or my 5th grade teacher during a field trip to Philly.

“That’s dirty.”

“It’s worthless.”

“Put it back.”

“You’re wasting time.”

            Were all words I learned to ignore. “It’s worthless” particularly hurt though, especially when it was a rusty coin. People were literally throwing away money, so how could you say it’s worthless? I once took home a safe I found by the side of the road and people still had the nerve to tell me it wasn’t worth anything. You don’t exactly put soup crackers in a locked safe, let’s just say that. The safe didn’t lead to any big discovery, but the thrill of finding someone else’s trash is still a feeling that excites me and any other mudlark to this day. In reality, it was never about the objects, but the pure adrenaline and happiness that comes when you find a little glint of something buried in the sand. The return to childhood. The feeling of being a little kid running up and down the beach searching for lost treasure. The joy is addictive.

              One idea that constantly troubles me, however, is the fine line between mudlark and hoarder. Some argue that mudlark is just a glamorized term for hoarder. This always hurts me; no one wants to be called a hoarder. Pack rat has more sincerity than that forbidden word. But I’d be an idiot not to acknowledge it. I believe they are closely related but not the same. A mudlark doesn’t necessarily keep their finds, while hoarders, well—hoard. Mudlarks have been called crows or even little dragons, both of which are animals that are known for their hoard of sheen. Hoarding is a serious condition and I don’t think it’s fair to loop in those who collect the occasional snapped spork into the same description.  Now a mudlark could certainly be a hoarder, but just because you are one doesn’t mean you’re the other.

            The word hoarder is never put on to children though. 

“Oh, he just likes to collect things.”

Why is that? Why aren’t the faults of children ever explored? All that’s discussed about youth is the joy that comes with it. But is there something living under the surface? Childhood is the most romanticized concept in our modern culture. We all ache for a simpler time when the biggest concern was crossing a flowing stream. Garden and Gun discusses how most mudlarks are children. Dashing through the woods, building forts, swinging from trees. It definitely adds to the charm.

            I once sat at a playground bench, making sure my little cousin didn’t roll off a swing or slice open a knee. I observed the kids on the playground. This one little boy seemed to be the champion of tag. “It” could only dream about making contact with the littler sprinter. The speedster weaved in between swings and under slides, but then something flashed across his eyes. He abruptly stopped and crouched down in the wood chips. “It” ran into him and began yelling about how he tagged the fastest boy on the playground. The racer just kept staring at the ground. My cousin was long forgotten, this was far more interesting than whatever she was doing in the mud. The little crouched boy scooped out something sparkly from the small grass patch near the slide. 

“Look at this cool rock!”

` He held it against the sun. Tag was a distant memory. Children gathered to look at the stone. A shiny rock was able to disrupt the entire structure of tag. Nothing broke up tag, except the whistle of a recess bell. This was revolutionary. 

            At what age do we lose this wonder?

This simple action shot me back to childhood. Tag is simplistic fun with little reward. But the act of finding abandoned treasure is a triumph that stays with you. I couldn’t even begin to describe a game of tag I played in 3rd grade. But I can recount every detail of the journey that led me to find a small plastic sword. I saw a reflection of myself in that boy, an impact he’ll never know he made on me. But there was a connection across that tambark I’ll never forget.

            Most children grow up collecting rocks; I know I did. The gateway drug of mudlarking, if you will. But then one day those boxes of stones vanish. Where did my childhood go? Why couldn’t I find my myriad of broken zippers? Or my bits and pieces of abandoned toys? I finally feel like I’m beyond childhood, but there’s still an ache in the back of my heart to discover. So I scavenge. I walk up and down beaches, through streams, and under tunnels. Hoping to make the newest discovery on toy cars or jagged scraps of metal.

             I’ll wade in the mud and discover. It’s what keeps me alive.

–

Lila Seip is a 16 year-old Latin enthusiast growing up in Pennsylvania. She has been nationally recognized for her Latin ability and continues to explore ancient culture as head of her district’s classic club. You can find Lila hunched over a makeshift desk, typing away into oblivion.