Posted by: Peadar Ban | March 1, 2013

March Is A Lamb Today

Something else from the Facebook page of my favorite Internet business, The Christian Book Corner:

March is a lamb, today. March is a whole flock of lambs in the snow.

The “big kids” are visiting the family across the street right now; the cousins from somewhere nearby. And the children are outside in the snow while the moms are inside at the table, no doubt, having at least several simultaneous conversations. (I have formulated a theory, not yet tested under strict laboratory conditions, that the number of conversations among women in a group is equal to the square of the number of women present.) Over the past several minutes the children have tumbled down the little slope of snow at the end of the driveway, falling out, more or less on purpose, of their devices for sliding down the hill more a melting heap, a bump, than anything else. They have tumbled and screamed and gotten up to tumble again. What is it about snow, hills of it, that causes such tumbling, such screaming? You don’t need to answer. I know

In the time it took to write those few words above, the hill has been abandoned. That sounds like a line from a combat dispatch, but no enemy has over-run them. No, they have set out through the steadily melting snow and now their joyous coloraturas echo around through the trees behind the house across the street; their mothers inside secure in the knowledge that they are safe and well. “How about another cup?” (This is not the sunny side of the street, by the way. Our primary rides along below a line of tall pines and oaks at this time of the year, and winter sometime stays around until mid-May over there. Perhaps the next Ice Age will begin across the street from me.)

The pile in front looks like a beach after the assault waves have advanced inland. Its slope is littered with a hat here and there, a glove. The upturned shells of brightly colored plastic things for sailing down hills at the speed of lightning lie strewn above the “shore” line; the well shoveled and plowed blacktop. They wait the next attempts of future Olympic athletes and the dreams they dream in between screams of delight.

I suppose it’s time I was on my way now. They’ll be going in for lunch, and I have errands to run. But, maybe I will delay my leaving for a while, sit by the window while the slight wind moves on through the trees, time slows to a standstill and the attentive pines, the guardian oaks wait patiently; the woods to echo once again. I do have things that I should do, but I would rather not do them now. I really would rather not do them.

Oh, well.

When I come back, I will watch the children play and listen to thier music:

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