Never interested in football, I've never once watched a Superbowl game, and Superbowl Sunday seems like an alien religious holiday. Me, I reframed it. This one Sunday of the year, the toodling back roads have no traffic. It's the first Sunday of the year that anyone's reliably likely to see newborn lambs gamboling in the fields. In my families since, we call it Lamb Lookin' Sunday.
The rules are simple. First, start driving in the general direction of lambs. While it is illegal to pre-determine the exact location of any lambs, and it's strongly preferred that a new lamb pasture be discovered each year, it's perfectly appropriate to plot a course that seems likely to pass past lambs. They must be discovered, not simply revisited.
Second, before returning to home base, a new tune must be added to Dadbo's Terrible Top Fifty Traveling Tunes. These are songs, composed during the ride, which feature some aspect of lambiness. After twenty eight successful excursions, we have quite a portfolio of past melodies and a raft of sparking lyrics, each of which first bring warm reminiscence before finally morphing into distraction. The new one's just gotta be, well, new.
Three: If you see lambs, you gotta stop. It is an obligation, a responsibility, a matter of character and ethics. When sheep are spotted, it's traditional to simply shout out, "Sheep!" as a warning to all in the car. Should there be no evident lambs, the all-clear sign is, "Sheep, no lambs." This returns the watch to watchfulness and halts the search for someplace to pull off the road without ending up in the ditch.
What do we do when we find lambs? We park the car, get out next to the fence, and revel in the innocence of a Spring who's promise can finally be confirmed, though her presence might not yet be felt. The wet, cold winds bother the lambs not even a little as they butt their mother's udder between playing hide and seek, umbilicals brushing the wet grass.
This is the Sunday marking the acknowledgment that we have survived another winter, that another in a truly endless stream of Springs is stalking us, and that right here, unlikely as it seemed just yesterday, hope thrives.
I won't comment on anyone elses' taste in Buffalo wings and half-time extravaganzas. We each receive our reassuring succor from our preferred cup. For me, it's family toodling down a country lane dedicated to a foolish mission, making up another memorably ridiculous tune.
Little tiny baby saying, "Who I am?
Who I am? Who I am?"
Little tiny baby saying, "Who I am?
I'm a lamb!"
