Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen (workshop of):
Portrait of Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen (c. 1533)

" … our faith in Spring, ourselves, and this universe renewed."

"You can see a lot by looking."
-Commonly attributed to Yogi Berra

A tradition was born on January 21, 1979, when a young family decided to take their ten-month-old son for a drive in the country. It was a Superbowl Sunday, a holiday for everybody except for this young family with a fussy baby. They found the roads down into the Willamette Valley remarkably empty. The typically cool and grey afternoon seemed distinctly more Spring-like than any they'd seen since their son was born. Over that year, they'd moved out of their final college apartment and into their first home, a genuine wreck of a place with potential. The husband and father had finally graduated from university, and with the addition of their delightful son, life seemed distinctly promising. About an hour into the toodle, they spotted a field filled with sheep and a few gamboling lambs. Nothing—and I mean nothing—better screams "Spring!" and hopefulness than a green field filled with gamboling lambs.

We took our son out of his car seat and stood transfixed beside that fenceline for the longest time. We left hesitantly, confident only in the knowledge and understanding that we'd touched the budding Springtime that afternoon. We would be back every Superbowl Sunday after, even unto this year's. Some years, though, we've had no access to country roads on that sacred day. Still, even following the later divorce and dismemberment, we continued the tradition, taking whichever kids and grandkids might be available along on the excursion. Sometimes, we found lambs, sometimes not. More often than not, we'd return with at least a fresh, truly terrible traveling tune, something we'd made up while Looking.

Now that I have forty-five years of dedicated experience, I could swear that something magic happened whenever I set out sincerely Looking. It almost seems that the very act of Looking manifests something like whatever I'm seeking. Not going all Prosperity Gospel on anyone, what manifests might be some twisted metaphor of the objective. In my experience, I must not only look but also generously interpret. It's easy to disappoint myself. I can talk myself out of continuing my Looking if my first few glimpses yield nothing. Just the very act of Looking seems necessary and sufficient when I can manage to keep my wits about me.

What am I seeking? By Superbowl Sunday, I'm looking for signs of Spring. It's always been a long and foggy winter by then, cold and discouraging. Nothing—and I mean NOTHING—screams hope like a gamboling lamb. Nothing better represents Spring. If this assertion seems Schmaltzy, excuse me. I seek absolution for all of my overwintered shortcomings. I need some sense of promise. I require reassurance. The mere act of Looking always seems at least almost sufficient to conjure up another appearance. Yesterday, The Muse and I, far away from our usual lamb-looking territory, we nonetheless set out looking. By evening, it had become apparent that we would very likely not be finding any flocks of sheep with lambs within San Francisco's city limits. We were almost resigned, like when we found ourselves in Brooklyn on our sacred holiday. Then, we stumbled into a cafe that featured a Shepherd's Pie, made with ground lamb, on the menu. We gratefully accepted the substitution.

This time, we'd almost acquiesced. Our first few choices for supper were filled with raucous revelers. We finally found a diner, thinking they might have something Spring-like on their menu. We entered, and while seating ourselves, I glanced out the window to see a sign on the adjacent second floor.

We quickly exited that diner and rushed across the street, stumbling up those stairs, swearing that we were magic or something. "You can see a lot by Looking," he said. I can honestly swear I manifest much by merely Looking, especially on a Superbowl Sunday when lamb-looking. We were sixty-eight days South of that day's sun angle back home. Spring moves North at the approximate average speed of eighteen miles per day, so sometime in mid-April, it might feel as Springlike at home as it felt in San Fran that afternoon. Whatever, our excursion proved successful. With a Hot Pot supper featuring lamb cuts (including tripe), we swiped an early Spring celebration. We gamboled back to our hotel room with our faith in Spring, ourselves, and this universe renewed.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #iAlogue , #PureSchmaltz