The Leg of Lamb


Right after WWII, around 1946, my brother, Andy, was six years old. It was early Sunday afternoon. After church, Mother and Daddy dropped the kids off at home, on Ellicott Street. Then they went somewhere else, probably to pay my dad's boss, Shorty Diamond, a payment on a personal loan. Mr. Diamond was very good to our family and helped us a lot. I rode with them. I was four and too little to be left at home, although back then the neighbors kept an eye out for all the children in the neighborhood.

The older siblings scattered to their friends' houses, until Sunday dinner was ready. But Andy stayed home. He had our dog, Brewen, to keep him company. Brewen was a skinny, rag-tag, black dog and Andy loved that dog. They were inseparable.

Times were financially difficult for everybody but everything seemed friendlier back then. The sunny days seemed as sweet as the smell of summer mangos that grew in our neighborhood.

Earlier that week, Mr. Meyer, the grocer who owned the little store on the corner a couple of blocks away, was talking to my mother at the counter. He said, almost whispering, "Mrs. Ash, I have a leg of lamb I've been saving until you came in." During those years it was almost impossible to come by something like that.

"I know with all your children, and Mr. Ash, it would be a shame to pass up an opportunity like this."

And the price was within reason, although just barely, for our family.

Mother thought for a minute because Mr. Meyer needed to know, and finally said, "Okay." He wrapped up our newly acquired good fortune in brown paper and Mother brought it home for Sunday dinner.

That morning before we all went to church, Mother had put the leg of lamb in the oven so it would be slowly cooking while we were gone. She checked on it after church when they dropped the kids off at home. It was doing great. The smell filled the house. It was wonderful.

When Mother and Daddy and I got back from Mr Diamond's house we knew the rest of the family would see our car pull into the driveway and come running home in anticipation of the special dinner.

Well, what we saw was different altogether. When we approached the front porch Andy was sitting on the steps. Lying, on the porch, up against the front of the house was Brewen. His eyes were closed and his breathing was labored. The two legs that were not lying on the floor, one front, one hind, were sticking up in the air at a 45 degree angle. His belly was extended like a basketball.

My mother said, "Oh Andy, what happened?"

And my dad said, "Son, are you all right?"

Andy didn't seem sad. He just looked up and said, "Mother, I gave Brewen the roast."

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