My Aunt Tib worked at her brother-in-law’s store for many years. His name was Frank Jamison, but most folks called him Handy. His store was in the building beside Macon Printing, which used to be Shorty Mason’s store, which used to be the A&P. Handy’s building is presently part of the Drake company.
Even though most people enjoy Easter and the Easter season, Tib probably was not one of those. You see, Handy would get a shipment of colored Easter chicks every year, and Tib had to contend with the smell, the removal of dead bodies, the poop, the feed, the wood shavings all over the floor, and the general uproar of a bunch of colored Easter chicks in the front of a 5 and 10 cent store.
Every year my mama put a little money in Handy’s pocket because my brother, Eddie, and I each had to have an Easter chick. The chicks might be blue, pink, purple, or green. We never had the same color because if one of them died there’d be no arguing about who was the owner of the dead chick. My mama was a thinker!
Those poor chicks stayed in a box with tall sides and peeped all day long. We’d pick them up and play with them or just admire their chickiness. The downside to the chicks is that they pooped on everything and everyone they could.
Eddie was much more patient and gentler with his chick than I was. I have a picture in my memory banks of him and his chick asleep on our Naugahyde couch, with tissues strategically placed to catch the inevitable poop. Obviously, my chick never had a minute’s peace, much less a chance to nap when I was near.
If the chicks managed to survive past Easter, we gave them to Mrs. Gertrude Cunningham Patton, who lived on Bidwell Street. She was my grandmother’s friend and kept chickens. I was very surprised to discover those chicks did not stay pink, blue, purple, or green, but turned into regular old white chickens. Mrs. Patton said one she took in was the meanest chicken she had ever seen, and we decided the coloring may have caused its meanness. Truth be known, it was probably my former chick that had learned survival skills.
This past week I was at Tractor Supply where there was a bunch of baby chicks along with a sign saying they were NOT Easter presents. I sure was glad to see that disclaimer, and I was doubly glad the colored Easter chick tradition did not last long enough for my grandchildren to want one.