The lamb and the lion

I am sitting at my office desk glancing at my day planner. Early March has arrived and that wind is really blowing. How does the saying go? “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” With a sigh, I put down my pen and daydream out of my office window, conjuring up one of those lamb-like days.

Little white puffs of cotton, that’s how I see those little spring lambies frolicking ever so daintily through the daisy-lined fields. Pretty yellow and white flowers push up from that light green grass just in time to tickle their dancing hooves. Wafting down from the heavens is a warm, gentle breeze. A black and yellow bumblebee zooms on by as if his fuzzy little body is gliding upon the clover-scented air. Up ahead in the distance I can almost see a brilliant red barn perched against the cerulean blue sky. It’s March in the country after all.

The ringing of the phone on my desk brings me back to reality with a sudden jolt. With pen in hand I take down the instructions of the caller: price out some farm land. A left, then a right, then to the first field next to the barn on the corner.

Out to the jeep I go with my extra pair of boots in my hand—it’s March in the country, after all.

Up ahead in the distance I can see the old barn. The wind has started to pick up and I put my boots on in the jeep. I open the door and am hit with the fragrant scent of farmland, a mix of damp earth and the delightful smell of animal-based fertilizer. It’s that perfect mix of chicken and cow droppings that’s blended and potent enough to make anything grow. Ah yes, I tell myself as that second whiff nearly knocks me to the ground, maybe when I leave I too will be taller. Where are all the lambs, I wonder? My eyes scan the fields as I search for some nice spring cotton puffs, when I notice a damp, chilling feeling closing in on my right foot. I close my eyes for a moment as I feel the chilly mud working its way up my leg.

Some people spend a lot of money on mud spa treatments, I tell myself, trying not to focus on what might actually be in that mud. I turn and hop back trying to find my boot, now sucked down under some nice spring grass and peering out from some pretty brown fertilizer. I reach into the grassy mud, careful not to get my other boot stuck, but to no avail. The only way out is to step out of the second boot and rest my foot on a dry clump of grass while I sort of hop toward the first boot. With my boots retrieved, I hobble over toward the barn, where I hope I will be able to sit on some nice spring hay while I remove some of the mud from my legs.

The March wind has picked up again and the barn door is moving rhythmically with each gust. With no time to waste, I hurry inside. Hobbling over toward a large bale of hay, I duck as a barn swallow with the wing span of a pterodactyl sweeps in toward my head, knocking me back into a large clump of something like used hay. I grab a rake with a short handle and prepare to do battle. If I miss the bird, the rake might still be handy to knock some of the mud off my feet and rake some of the used hay out of my hair. Then I hear a sharp noise behind me.

“I hope its a cricket.” oh, barn gods, I pray. I try to hold my breath, prepared to use my rake if necessary. “My god in heaven!” I blurt out loud as I spy the largest barn cat I ever saw. It is almost lionine. Ears flattened down, it hisses at me like I am about to become lunch. “Nice kitty.... Nice kitty.....” Never sneak up on a barn cat. Boy, I do know better than to do that.

Since this baby is a tad territorial, there is only one thing I can do. I need to run out of that barn as strong as that March wind and as speedy as those fuzzy little lambies in my daydreams. With my muddy boots in one hand and broken rake in the other, I bolt as ladylike as possible through the mud all the way back to my jeep. Heading back to the safety of my office, I realize there is something to that old saying: march into a lion and run out like a lamb.