It's not spring, but memories surface as they will.
And so, as Thanksgiving approaches, I'm thinking about one particular Easter when the usual brightly woven baskets filled with candy were supplemented by something more.
The year we moved to the island in New Hampshire, we kids found six downy chicks chirping away under the kitchen stove. My father built them a coop, and as soon as it was warm enough, they were allowed to roam the island.
In its heyday, the island estate had been very grand, and peacocks strutted on the velvety lawns. The little flock of Rhode Island reds was a poor substitution.
It didn't take long for us to realize that the coop was a fraternity house, and there would be no eggs for breakfast. Luckily, a neighboring farm came up with a solution. Every so often, Dad would tuck a rooster under an arm, visit the neighbor, and return with a young hen.
My kid brother was about 5 years old at the time, and quite a timid soul. One rooster in particular learned to terrorize him. With a squawk and wings flying, he would spot the youngster and peck him on the seat of the pants. Don would run, squealing, back into the house.
The day finally came for the bully rooster to make the swap-trip to the other farm. There was a young boy living there, too. Spanky came out of his house, and the eyes of the new rooster lit up. Wings flapping and shrieking his murderous war-cry, he headed for Spanky's posterior.
Spanky turned to see the source of the crowing, and socked the rooster on the side of the head. The rooster reeled and staggered away, never to launch an attack again.
The new flock of hens enjoyed the buffet the island offered. The yolks were a rich, bright orange. The Easter offerings returned to milk chocolate.
Lorraine Lilja is a retired Press-Republican reporter. A collection of her columns, "Lilja's World," is for sale at local bookstores. Lilja can be reached at llilja17@hotmail.com.
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Rooster finds something to crow about
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