Here's a story from my early childhood that either happened or didn't happen, depending on who you're talking with. In the Spring of my fifth year on Earth, I lived happily in a small house on the west side of Cleveland with my parents, an older brother, and at least one or two distant cousins, recent immigrants from Greece who occupied roughed-out bedrooms in our attic.
It came to pass in those days that I arrived home from kindergarten on one occasion and found, to my great joy, a baby lamb living in our basement, next to the old coal furnace. My new pet greeted me with soulful eyes and munched on straw that I fed him. My life, at that time, was a constant series of surprises so I didn't question the lamb's presence. It was just a new fact of the world that I had encountered. I sensed an unease, however, an undefined sense of impermanence, in my new pet which, since that was already my own constant state, I didn't find unusual.
For reasons known only to a child, I kept the discovery of the lamb a secret from the rest of my family. I kept many secrets at that time, trying, I suppose, to carve out a life for myself that wasn't just an extension of my parents. I don't remember giving the lamb a name, but nonetheless, we became great friends. Every day for what was either a week or a month (who can remember these things) I slipped into the basement to sit with, to share my meager life experiences with, and to console my friend. I felt that consolation was required but I thought it was just that the lamb missed his parents.
One day, I came home from school and found my friend lying on the white enameled kitchen table, unfortunately without his skin and very much not alive. I was distraught, confused, frightened for my friend and, somehow, for myself. The world was a very unsettling place.
My cousin, with whom I did not share a language since I spoke little or no Greek and his English was insufficient to the task, beckoned me to the stove, clearly wanting to show me something quite wonderful. A large pot was boiling strongly, with puffs of steam lifting the lid during their escape. My cousin indicated that I should look into the pot as he removed the lid. So, of course, I did.
Staring up at me from within the boiling water was the head of my friend, with his soulful eyes questioning his fate. I ran from the kitchen to the sounds of laughter from my cousin.
At our Easter celebration the following Sunday, I didn't eat any lamb. Actually, I didn't eat any cow or pig either, feeling, as I did, a great affinity for their various sufferings.
For years after, I couldn't look at the sides of beef hanging in the cooler behind the grocery store meat counter or countenance my mother's choosing a live chicken to be put to death and dismembered into its component legs, wings, and breasts while she watched. Easter Sundays, with the traditional roasting of a whole lamb on a spit over an open fire, were days that I focused my attention on Easter eggs, mashed potatoes and baklava.
I've long since reconciled myself to the slaughter of cows and pigs for my gustatory pleasure. But I still don't eat lamb.
I've told this story many times. Each time my mother heard the story, she vehemently denied every part of it. There was no lamb in our house, no head in boiling water, none of that rural stuff went on in our urban kitchen. But I know what I saw and what I felt. Some of it might actually have happened.