Tag Archiv: mascot

Goodwin Cederic


Misty with Goodwin's wives

Misty with Goodwin’s wives





Sheep husbands are bought once a year and stay for a month. We buy them young so they look exactly like the ewes (I guess unless we cared to view them lying on the ground). Next year’s flock father didn’t look too impressive jumping off the pick-up truck he came in. I reminded myself that with three kids in the family on the smaller end of things, it would be best to keep quiet about the notion that a small ram was somehow less than. Silently, I grumbled that there’s a difference between what you look for in a person and a sheep.

I went outside last week to take some pictures of the winter. Misty looked good with the wind blowing her hair so I snapped that. The sheep always look good to me, but I stopped myself from twenty pictures that all look the same. After fences and clouds my battery died. Although I wasn’t searching for one, it was then that I found my mascot, Goodwin Cedric. (Having previously lived as a number, he deserved a good name.)

Goodwin Cedric (aka Sheep Husband 2015) was facing off with Buster, the steer. As usual, Buster looked bored. All sheep, but male sheep most especially, love butting heads. A good head butt alternately says, “hey,” “want to play?” and “die moron, I hate your guts.”

After Buster, Goodwin Cederic went at Anabelle. Misty is a crankier creature, but for sheer size and strength, cow, Anabelle is the Queen Mama. ┬áThree or four times he came at her to smash her head. The approximate translation was along the lines of, “Hey, I might not hate you, but what if I did? Would you want to play?” Large cow largely ignored the little ram bouncing off her nose. Goodwin Cedric then started at Misty. That would have been extremely interesting to watch but at the last second he seemed to realize that taking on an emotionally unstable, easily threatened older woman with big hooves and no sense of humor might not be such a good idea. Goodwin Cedric was heading back to talk to Buster about the theory of head butting when I went in for some tea, happy and with new notions about facing obstacles.

The stuff of my dreams eludes my grasp. Stone-hearted giants hold the keys to unlock the doors, and the fight to hold high the standard and carry on can be hard. I think of giving up. Little voices in the dark spring up here and there like tiny lights along the path and so I don’t. It isn’t much, but it’s enough. Friday it was Goodwin Cedric. Goodwin, meaning God’s friend. Cedric, meaning valiant warrior. The picture’s in my head and not my camera, him determined, oblivious to his size, butting heads with creatures at least ten times his weight. I see him pawing the ground with his hoof, backing up to take another run at it. My spirit’s lifted, I prepare to go and do likewise.



Sometimes I worry that I will run out of things to write about. I keep lists. When I get an idea or something happens, I write it down. But I when I write about the last thing on the list I wonder what will happen the next day. What if I wake up and there is nothing left to say? Could I get a job writing story problems for math textbooks? I don’t know. Is it not logically inevitable that I will come to the place that is the end of anything new?

And then came Slobergas.

It always means something when the kids get out of the car without me making them close their books. Usually it means they’re hungry. Sometimes it means they have a mission. Last week they had a mission, and his name was Slobergas.

Slobergas is a stray dog (loosely defined as a dog that strays). I’m sure Slobergas has an owner and a proper name, but what Slobergas clearly loves is a good wander. Daily, he wanders over to the school and says hello, saunters around the playground and the parking lot. Teachers apparently aren’t wild about him. The kids think he drools a lot, has a particular kind of smell, and would make an excellent mascot.

A child (named “not mine”) took Slobergas’s two great attractions together and won the playground debates that settled on the dog’s name. Obviously none of them can spell, but they insist that spelling of a proper name is up to the namer and not subject to the normal rules of spelling. Hence, “Slobergas,” not “Slobbergas.”

It was my child that insisted a campaign was in order. That’s why they even knew we had arrived home or bothered to get out of the car that day. They had posters to make, pictures to draw, even a poem to write about the school dog, Slobergas. Not just a dog, but Slobergas, a dog worthy of being a mascot. Every school should have a mascot and Slobergas should be ours says Boy two. The boy who makes pulling teeth with pliers seem like a dream job rather than get him to focus on school work after hours, happily spent hours revising, perfecting, and directing the mascot efforts. The next morning on the way to school, he remained in a dreamy euphoria.

“I really like doing campaigns and stuff. Trying to change things and get people to vote. I’m really happy about Slobergas,” he said.

And really, so am I. Slobergas isn’t something I created. Beautiful, silly, delightful things are everywhere. It’s not my job to make them up, just the work of a lifetime to keep noticing them. And sometimes, to write down what I see.