Like a Woolly Little Lamb

A long time ago, when I was a wee bairn, my mom used to greet March with the annual unveiling of two wicker baskets (similar to the kind you use to store cotton balls, or the like).

These baskets were displayed front and center in the kitchen, surrounded by a barrage of green, glittery Irish gimcrackery.

My mom's favorite holiday is St. Patrick's Day.

And yet, she doesn't eat corned beef and cabbage, and she's never had a drink in her life.

But anyway,

The baskets.

Each was adorned with carefully-glued yarn puff-balls.

One looked a lot like a lamb (as much as a basket can, anyway).

And one looked like a carrot-topped lion.

"In like a lamb...out like a lion,"

or

"In like a lion...out like a lamb."

She'd always say.

And then, depending on the reign of the great and terrible lion, we would go fly kites until we couldn't feel our fingers anymore (or at least until the wimpy kite sticks broke).

For years, I felt like a soothsayer:  If the beginning of March was pleasant, I could bet my bottom dollar that the end would be beyond blustery.

Or vice versa.

And then I kind of forgot to care about such things.

Which, in my opinion, is the tragedy of adulthood.

But this morning, March 1st, I awoke to sunshine and happiness.

It was cold.

It was still mighty cold.

But the frost swirls on my car windows looked a lot like sparkly wool...not unlike what might be found on some young ewe diva.

And for a moment, I thought about my life as a child.

And missed it.

Life was simple back then:

Magical wicker baskets and kite flying.

But, then I thought,

Today, March has come in like a lamb in more ways than a ray of sun.

It's brought with it excitement, anticipation, and the refreshing hope of new beginnings.

And, 

Although my soothsaying abilities now fail me,

I am grateful.