Easter: Chicks and a Rabbit

It was spring and there were flowers

Ben Franklin’s had received its annual shipment of baby chicks. I raced to the store and sped across its long wooden aisles passing the dry goods, clothes, mops, detergents, and toys, to the new arrivals. The peeps and smells of chicks and musty grain drew me to those lovable balls of fluff crammed in their high glass enclosure.

On tiptoes, I spied them warming under the glow of soft yellow bulbs. Chicks scampered everywhere; in their water, in their feed, and on each other. I bought the two warmest and fluffiest, and I hurried home.

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I put them in a cardboard box lined with newspaper and tucked it behind the warm kitchen stove. Every afternoon, I hurried from school to watch the cuddly balls bobbing and winding along on little legs and pointed toes. All they did was eat, sleep, and defecate — everywhere — on paper, in their food, in their water, and on each other. They pooped on the linoleum and sometimes in my lap. The chicks grew quickly. After Easter, my cousins were tired of their two, so I appropriated them.

One day, I opened the door and found them wandering about the kitchen, leaving a trail. A deeper box topped with an old screen did not help. Before long they jumped, knocked the screen off, stood on the box momentarily, flapped their tiny wings, and glided to the floor. The chicks needed to be outdoors.

“Can I put them on the porch?” We lived on the third floor of a three-story home with a porch overlooking the neighborhood. I thought its rails were high enough to keep the chickens contained.

“Okay, for now,” Dad said. I put the screen with a brick on top of a larger box. One day the chickens tipped the box and were roaming the porch. A bigger box, a larger screen, and a second brick were to no avail. I received a phone call from an annoyed next-door neighbor. “Edward, your chickens are on my porch.” They had jumped the rail and sailed to the neighbor’s porch one floor below 10 feet away. It was time for another relocation.

Grandfather built a pen along the rear wall of the neighbor’s garage. One day, while I was sitting in the yard, I saw an ominous bird perched on our clothes pole. He made an athletic swoop toward the chickens and tried to pluck them but was unsuccessful. Back to his perch, he went, never taking his eyes from the chickens, or me. “What’s that?”

Grandpa replied, “Owl.”

The chickens had to go. Too big and too appealing to predators, they no longer belonged in the neighborhood. We gave them to my uncle’s father, who was farming land near our home. He said, “It-sa the perfek place. They can-na stay in-na-the coop, or … run-aroun. You no haf-a-fa ta worry about the big-a bird or the mess, and it-sa good-a foh the garden.”

He said I could visit anytime. I did once, but I was unable to identify them in the crowd. I wondered what happened to those once cuddly little pets. I never got an answer.

The Easter following the chicks’ episode, I bought a rabbit. One rabbit on the ground should be easier to manage than four chickens in the air. Like chickens, they were soft and cuddly, but unlike chickens, they sat in my lap, ate from my hand, and returned to a simple call like ‘isisp, isisp.’ And, for sure they do not fly. Grandpa built a hutch for my rabbit in the backyard. After school, I fed him, held him, pet him, and let him roam. A loyal friend, he recognized me as soon as I rounded the corner, and he thumped the floor of his den.

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One day, I did not hear his welcoming thump. I walked to the hutch and looked in. He was lying at the bottom, motionless. “Isisp, isisp.” Nothing. I banged the side. Nothing. I unhitched the latch and opened the cage. Nothing. I reached in with a heavy arm and pushed him with three fingers. Nothing. I looked around. It was quiet. The trees were still. I looked up at the closed windows. No one was home. I closed the cage. I looked at my rabbit. He lay dead.

Just then, Grandpa rounded the corner, saw me at the cage, walked over, looked in, and put his hand on my shoulder. I stiffened. My back teeth were clenched tight. My jaw muscles were bulging. I took two quick breaths and wiped my nose with my shirt sleeve. “Dese-a things happen, Ed-a-wood.” He paused. I looked up at him. “Iffa you wanna, I cannna put him right inna da yard. He will-a be clossa to you.

“Here?” he nodded.

I watched my grandfather dig the hole, lift the rabbit while cradling his head, and place him on his dirt floor. With his wrinkled hand, he brushed the fur, laid an old sheet over him, and shoveled in the dirt, leaving a little mound. He finished by nailing two pieces of wood for a cross. Grandpa turned and put both hands on my shoulders. I sobbed. He held me close. I could smell the dirt and sweat. “Letsa go uppa-da stairs. You Grandma willa hav some-a-ting gooda to eat.” I looked over my shoulder as I walked to the rear door. Each day thereafter, I paused at the cross.

Weeks later, I met a friend with a finger-like furry thing attached to a chain and clasped around his belt loop. “What’s that?”

“A rabbit foot.”

“A real rabbit foot?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you get it?”

“My mother bought it for me. She said it brings good luck.” Good luck! I rushed from school to dig up my rabbit. As I started to dig, Grandpa entered the yard.

“Whatta you do?”

“Getting my rabbit’s foot.”

“Un’ momento.” After he brushed the dirt to its rightful place, he put down the shovel, turned, put both hands on my shoulders, and looked into my eyes. “Once-a the a petta he die, you musta putta him inna the groun and livva him. No diturba neva.” I looked up.

“Letsa go uppa-da stairs. You Grandma willa hav some-a-ting gooda to eat.”

Summer passed. Leaves, then snow, fell on my rabbit’s grave. Spring came and there were flowers.

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