Once, long ago, in those dear, dim, distant days almost beyond recall (certainly beyond the time of some of you readers) I had a pet lamb. His name was Louie and I loved that lamb as you can see in the picture. (Sorry about my tongue being between my teeth.)
Anyway, Louie was a lively, fun little fellow, wooly, of course, and he loved the green grass and jumping and playing. So did I. He liked to lie in the shade of a tree in the summertime and think about things. So did I.
Time passed, as it has a way of doing and Louie and I went separate ways, but, I never forgot him. You can imagine, then, when I saw a white, wooly lamb in a yarn shop in Dublin, I immediately thought of Louie. Sauntering over, I introduced myself and he, most courteously, smiled. I asked him if he was happy there in Ireland and if he’d like to take a trip across the Atlantic and maybe live in my house in Arkansas.
“The Atlantic?” he asked. “I’ve heard of it. And, what and where is Arkansas?”
I explained, as well as I could, the vastness of the ocean, the distance Ireland was from the USA. “I understand,” I told him, “if you do not want to leave this beautiful island of yours. I’ve never seen a lovelier place and you might miss it and grow homesick.”
Yes, he knew first hand of the beauty of Ireland. In fact, he could trace his ancestry to the back of one of those actual, living, breathing sheep who dotted the green slopes of Irish pastures but he was ready for a little adventure and he thought America sounded like a great place.
And that’s the story of how Kerry the Irish lamb came to be sitting in my family room.
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