The Lynching of Lamby-Pie: A Christmas Story

I had a white blanket trimmed in lace and a plush army of bunnies, kitties and bears – each with a name, gender and day of the week to sleep under my arm. (Apparently, I was the leader of my own polygamist stuffed animal sect.) My brother had a small quilt that he drug around Linus-style. My uncle had Lamby-Pie.

The small lamb was toted everywhere, according to my Grams, who, out of dutiful cleanliness, would lamb-nap when a proper bath was needed. One summer, after one such regular scrub, Lamby-Pie was left to air dry outside in the breeze. A simple shoestring hung from a small branch would do just fine, Grams thought.

As Lamby-Pie’s four-year-old companion came hunting, he took one look at the lamb – hung by his neck from a tree – and rushed screaming into the house. “You hung my Wamby-Pie!”