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Slowly, slowly, winter would lessen its grip, and the first lambs of the year would be born, their thin bleating, the first music of spring. When I wa... young there was always at least one, born a few weeks sooner than the rest, my father would bring the lamb into our kitchen, settling it in a warm box by the stove. This was the closest I ever got to having a pet, the dogs my father kept were strictly for working and he was adamant that they were not to be turned soft. My father and mother were. Part of it was my guilt, part of it was selfishness, but I'd made thedecision fairly soon after Wally was fired. That's why I nudged himtowards baking, and that's why I established the tradition he was aboutto put into practice."Mia," he called from the stairway."You know where I am," I replied.Wally walked into the doorway, holding a small roll carefully in hishands. First roll of every batch, we came up to the bedroom and atetogether. Wally sat down on his end of the bed and pinched the. More

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