By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl
With a sigh, my mind carries me back home to smalltown Porterville, to a hundred-year-old home and a side yard with a swing set and plenty of grass for games of tag and Red Rover. Next to the yard, a field is tufted with weeds and grass and newborn lambs.
My fingers are crossed, tight as can be, that my neighbors will be outside at the precise time that I am. Hope rises as I see the huge baby bottles of milk being carried to the field. I look at my sister. She looks at me. We share the same question. Will we be invited to help feed the baby sheep?
A wild rush of sheep sing-song brightens the day as Marie, Carol and Alan – the Kippen kids – push their way through the mad rush of wool to lean against the greyed pole fence.
Will it come? Will it come? The question. Will it come? We smile our way to the fence and talk casually with our friends. Will it come? It’s hard to masquerade our excitement.
The lambs persist their hungry exclamations, anxious for our friendly childhood exchange to end. Will it come? Their bleating calls continue as we talk about our day at school. Will it come? The lambs’ hints of hunger are finally louder than our conversation. The question finally comes. “Would you like to help feed the baby lambs?”
I think, Of course! Of course! What took you so long to ask! Instead, I simply say, “We’d love to help.”
My sister and I each take a bottle. Soon, creamy bundles of wool gaze into our eyes. We become surrogate mothers for a few moments, watching each lamb’s long tail swish with delight as drops of milk escape their muzzles. With noses wet and twitching ears, these lambs are the perfect delight on a new spring day. With noses wet and twitching ears, these lambs become a perfect homesong memory for sisters who will someday live miles apart.
