The house on Post Avenue is one of many today. Nothing special distinguishes it from the others that line both sides of the street. I doubt that anyone knows or cares that it was the first house built on Post Avenue. My parents were the second owners. When I lived there the neighborhood was still growing and there was considerable open space. There were even wild animals.
One sunny afternoon my brother Randy came in from the backyard with something special in his hands. It was a tiny baby rabbit. Probably only a few weeks old. Everyone was excited as he told how he had found it. The bunny was put in a box and we put grass and other things we thought baby bunnies would like to eat inside the box as well. It would be a challenge to raise a wild bunny, but the rewards of watching it grow into adulthood, and owning a tamed wild rabbit would be worth the effort.
The next morning brought reality to our house. The bunny was dead. Wild animals rarely do well in captivity. Especially if they’re in the hands of those too young to know proper handling and feeding needs of whatever animal they might have captured. We were disappointed, probably Randy was most of all, but we weren’t shattered and the bunny incident was soon added to the list of things that happen when you’re growing up.
Danny, from next door, was one of my best friends. Proximity and age similarity almost assured that it would be so. We had tons of great times together, and got along very well – most of the time.
I don’t know what our disagreement was about, I don’t know who started it, and I don’t know who was right and who was wrong. I just know I ended up being the loser of this argument. The fight started and ended in our yard, near the street. We were quite angry at each other. At least I remember I was quite angry. One of us, and I really don’t remember which one, picked up a rock and threw it at the other. It missed its target.
Then the other picked up the same rock and threw it back at the first offender. It missed again. This happened several times. I guess we were not as accurate as we were angry. It seemed like a rather large rock to me. I remember needing two hands to pick it up and toss it, but never far enough to do any damage. For some reason which I don’t fully understand, maybe I thought the argument was over, maybe I was so blind with anger I wasn’t thinking straight – I don’t know. For some reason, I sat down at the top of the ditch by the street. Danny picked up the stone, but instead of throwing it, brought it over to where I was sitting and dropped it on my head. I’m guessing it hurt quite a bit.
I believe it must have been my anguished cry that brought to my parents attention the news that I had been injured. Or maybe it was the blood dripping from a gash in my skull, I’m really not sure. After tending to my wounds my father called Danny’s parents over to our house and had a loud discussion with them. Being a young boy, nothing of what my father said registered with me, but I could tell he was not happy.
While he was shouting at Danny’s parents I saw something I had never seen before. My father was crying. Whether it was his anger or his concern for me I don’t know, but I do know he was definitely crying. Danny’s parents were finally reprimanded fully and allowed to go back to their house. I wasn’t sure what to think of what I had witnessed. My head hurt a little.
The next day, Danny and I played together like the good friends we were.
