By Nellie Curtiss …
It was Thanksgiving, the day before Thanksgiving that is, a few years back. TV Commercial spots ran and reran the upcoming Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, Verizon’s give-a-way phones and Samsung Black Friday deals at Target.
Dry atmosphere meant no snow had fallen on the dusty half road near the farmer’s Alfalfa field. The Willow trees, now barren of leaves, were waving to passing finches but the Evening Grosbeaks and Sand-Hill Cranes had departed a month earlier. Still, the corner yard held on to ripe grass.
As the Audubon bird clock cooed 11 a.m., the twenty-something employee knew he had to make like all bees do when temperatures permit – leave – for work, that is. So, his mom reached for her keys and the two secured seatbelts as the small Smart Fortwo cabriolet turned out of the driveway and headed out the gravel road to the pool.
Just turning the corner, the mom and son noticed a cottontail rabbit lying in the dirt. The mom said, “Oh, I’m sorry little rabbit; I wish that I could have kept you from being run over.”
After returning from dropping her son off for his shift at the pool, the mom parked the green car and walked over to the small hare in the road. With her boot, she gently touched the body to see if there was life. The cottontail remained lifeless.
“Oh, little rabbit, I wish that God could make you live again. I’m sorry that you were run over. Dear Lord, keep the rabbit safe. I wish that drivers would be more alert to wildlife.”
While rinsing and loading bowls and pans for the dishwasher, the mom looked out the kitchen window as a way of keeping two eyes locked on the mortally wounded creature. Hours had passed; the son was ready to be picked up from the pool.
Once again, the mom drove slowly by a very still carcass; the hare’s coat still shined and rippled in the soft breeze. The rabbit’s coat had a soft streak of cream yellow color just near its cotton-like tail. But the sagebrush varmint never stirred or shivered.
Before midnight, the mom once again checked on the small mammal’s body. From the driveway, she shone a flashlight on the hare. She walked over and using a stick, she gently touched the rabbit for any hidden life. She looked for evidence of breathing at its nostrils and there was none. Any veterinarian would have pronounced the prairie grazer dead.
The morning brought some fog; and still the mom slid into her blue jean jacket and walked out to the dirt road to see the rabbit. But the hare was nowhere to be seen.
Instead there were scratches in the sandy dirt. Was it a scavenger coyote, an Eagle, or other predator? The mom followed the marks that indicated the rabbit’s right hind leg was dragging while the other paws seemed to hop. It was a trail of life, as it turns out. Each score seemed a little less like a “drag” than a hop until finally the tracks crossed onto the small still green yard with the “hop” quotient showing for each lucky rabbit foot. Then she spun 360 degrees in search of the cottontail; but no big-eared living thing was found.
As the dawning sun crested the Sangre de Cristo’s, the Butterball was roasting and the tofu turkey was beside it in the same oven. The cranberry and orange relish was cooled and ready for the table. Candied Sweet Potatoes covered in marshmallows and pecans with Land O’Lakes butter had the strongest call that Thanksgiving as friends and family arrived.
The mom was preparing the last touches for the buffet when she glanced out the kitchen window. There in the still grass was the rabbit that was like Lazarus from that ancient tale; the little cottontail with the same cream-colored mark on its coat was munching out on that lawn just a hop and a jump from where a wildlife miracle happened on a cold Thanksgiving Day.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed as goose bumps ran up her spine and arms. Thanksgiving miracles are welcome wherever they roam and ever since that day, no small animal has ever been hit or run over on that dusty road again.
Columns by nellie 