Easter Traditions

Originally posted March 21, 2008.  With Easter upon us I decided to repost.

When I was young, one of our observances for Easter was to plan a hike for the Saturday before.  We would pack a lunch and head out on foot to hike to a little cave on Little Mountain (NE of town), or if we were really lucky a parent would take us a little closer to the mountain via car.

We would hike up to the top of Little Mountain and across the ridge until we were right above the cave, then down to the cave for our lunch break.  While there it was common to crawl back into the cave to the end, because we had the notion that it was the Easter Bunny's cave.

About the only thing we ever found was evidence that coyotes had been in the cave, nothing resembling the evidence of rabbits was found by me or others I was with.

After lunch and exploring the cave was done, a parent would show up at the appointed time and take us back to town.

I remember one specific year where a friend and myself were planning the traditional hike to the Easter Bunny cave.  We decided to invite a friend from school who was from another town and had never had the experience before.

In this particular case, I think we were dropped off close to the base of the hill and arranged to meet our ride back at Newton Dam at the appointed time.

We had a great time.  Up the hill, along the ridge, down to the cave, eat lunch, explore the cave then head back to our meeting spot.

This day the meeting spot required us to hike back up to the top, then down the West side of the hill to the reservoir.

All was going splendidly until we started down the West side (much steeper back then, if you ask me) and I implemented the improvised toboggan slide-roll maneuver down the hill.

I have performed that maneuver many times in my life, but probably never with as much grace as I did that particular time.  The problem I faced was that towards the bottom of the hill was a barbed wire fence.

I am glad to report that I did not maintain my speedy descent all the way to the fence, and was able to avoid injury.

All's well that ends well, I guess.  I walked out the pain and we caught our ride back home to relax the rest of our weekend.

Another successful Easter weekend hike was under our belts, even though we never met up with the Easter Bunny.

Raising Pigeons

My dad grew up with chickens. Raising laying hens and processing the eggs was a major part of the economy of his family. For a short time he continued that heritage on a smaller scale with his children. I remember having a coop full of chickens – nowhere near the number my dad attended to when he was growing up, but plenty of them. Caring for the chickens, collecting and processing the eggs and periodically harvesting the hens for the pot are some of my childhood experiences.

In addition to a few years of keeping chickens, we always had horses, a dog, often times a calf to care for, and even rabbits. At least one year my older siblings raised turkeys as a 4-H project, but that is another story. Just as many in our community do, in the summer we grew a garden and stored its produce for the winter months. There was plenty to be done on our little “farm” in the rural community we called home. Then there were the pigeons.

Speaking to my older brothers, they aren’t exactly sure of the reason why they had decided to keep pigeons, but the pigeon project started when they were young, and continued into my teenage years. A conveniently available piano box became the first pen. Nesting areas were built, and with access doors and chicken wire in place, it was time to add the birds. Living where we do there was - and is - a surplus of farm buildings teeming with wild pigeons willing to help themselves to the grain meant for livestock. Some of these were the pigeons that began our backyard flock.

Years later, even though we had a well established group of pigeons, from time to time my dad would arrange with a neighbor and we would go out in the evening to locate one or two more of these wild birds to add to our loft. It was a treat to go on one of these after dark pigeon hunts. A large fishing net was placed on a long pole and we would quietly enter the barn to locate our quarry. If everything went well we would have avoided meeting any skunks along the way, and added another bird to our pen. If we were really successful, we would have a brown colored bird to introduce to the others.

The first birds that were brought by my dad and brothers to our pen were kept inside until they had hatched a nest of young. These offspring would know no other home, and their homing instinct would allow us to open the pen often and let them stretch their wings, or whatever else they chose to do, and then close the pen when they were all in for the night. Times are different now in the age of electronics, but as a young boy I remember how fun it was to watch them take flight on their circular route around the backyard.

As our flock grew we added another pen, and several generations of pigeons were raised over the years. Taking care of any animal is an exercise in fate, and it was the same with these pigeons. The occasional run in with their sworn enemy the cat, or worse, a skunk would find a way to get into the pen and reduce the numbers. Near the end of the pigeon raising years, my brother remembers that dad set up a live trap hoping to catch a particularly pesky cat, but netted a skunk instead. These kinds of dangers (to man and pigeon alike) as well as the diverse interests brought on by age as my brothers and I grew up, signaled that it was time to relocate our little flock.

For years afterwards, the pens stood empty, and then they were removed as the space was needed for a new garden plot and for hay storage to feed the bulls or heifers that my brother sends over each winter. I have searched through old albums a bit for a photo that documents this part of my youth, and so far have located only one picture and my older brother found one as well. But even better than a photo, I have these memories of raising pigeons, and am grateful for the moments of reflection that spark such remembrances of my childhood.

This photo courtesy my brother Kent.