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Oatmeal and Chicken Bones
 
Sean    January 2002   
   
  A slice of O’Henry I call it,  but my family called  it  - Oatmeal and Chicken Bones. 
   
             I grew up in a valley in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains in Western New York near a town of some notoriety called Attica, New York.  Long before the prison uprising, in a tranquil time of our family we had a severe winter even by standards known to people in Buffalo.  We had so much snow that I could sled to the mailbox by taking cardboard and jumping out my parent’s second floor bedroom window.   School had been suspended for two weeks in January, right around this time of the year. 
   
              My father could not get to drive to work to Buffalo, some 35 miles away and we were in difficulty of getting food. Normally my father could get to the store about 6 miles in Bennington.  Instead he made us snowshoes and he and I went hunting for deer, even though it was no longer deer season.    I did not join in the kill but he was able to bag a buck.  He taught me how to gut, skin and use all the parts for making gloves and preparing meat.  My sister would not eat the meat believing it to be Bambi.  
   
              My father took me aside and cut off a large hind section of the deer for my neighbor and a separate chunk to be especially  prepared by our neighbor, the George’s.  Mom had called the neighbor’s wife out of earshot of my sister and worked out a trade for Chicken, milk, eggs and preparation of deer meat.  My job was to lug the deer meat on my sled to the neighbor about a quarter a mile up the hill.   I did not want this task but I did not dared to openly object.   I collected two dozen eggs and two decapitated chickens and deer meat prepared to look like roast beef.    
   
              My mom served up an excellent meal that night and I remember getting these long, icy slivery stares and wide-eyed glares from my mom not to reveal the deception.   My sister Maureen and I never got along very well.  Because of the Second World War we had both been divided into separate loaned out families and had never knew that the other existed until I was ten and relocated to this rural home.  This is by way to explain why the next morning; I revealed the content of the previous night’s feast as she and I were making our own oatmeal breakfast.   She cried and went to mom and was being consoled for me being so spiteful.  Dad pulled me aside and as punishment I was to feed the chicken that was intended to be my dinner to the 22 cats that were shivering in our basement.   I prepared more oatmeal and boiled the chickens and mixed them together to keep the cats alive.
   
              Now came my trip to the cellar to give away my breakfast and dinner.  Needless to say I was not feeling repentant for my sin.  As the chicken was boiling, I shoveled a path to the cellar from the back of the house and pried open the cellar door so I could make  my trip.  “Why did we have 22 cats”? I was mumbling load enough and near enough so my dad could hear.   “Just feed them”, he said calmly and firmly. His reputation as a golden glove boxer in the merchant marines was enough to end my protest.  My sister prepared the large wash pan and poured all the oatmeal and chicken parts into mix.  I had forgotten that the cellar door was still open and the steps were exposed to the slush and freezing snow that had been coming down hard all morning.
   
              I was balancing the thin rimmed, no handled, stainless steel potted mixture of   boiling hot oatmeal and warm chicken as I braved the harsh elements without a coat – just jeans, a sweater and shoes. No socks! That would have been too dressed up for our cacophony of cats.  The cats were swarming around my feet, scratching my legs and whining incessantly.  A Hamilton would never have given these sacred felines the foot to brush them aside – cats have souls more sacred than most humans
   
             There was no let up.  I looked at the living room windows and   in one window was Margaret Chase Smith, the mother of the 22 cats below watching my every move along with my snickering sister.  Looking out  the other window was my mother holding Lazarus, the cat that my father had brought back to life years ago. All eyes were following me to the cellar door. I did not look straight up for had I, I would have spotted a huge seven foot icicle, hanging like damacles sword dripping my fate on the top of the cellar entrance. 
   
              I hit that first step. There was an icy patch I couldn’t see. Oatmeal and chicken bones went flying straight up.  It landed over my face and chest.  The cats were enjoying their feast.  No polite human etiquette here as 22 cats were crawling, scratching,  licking and chewing all over my neck, face and ears, chest and legs.  One bit of chicken bone was wobbling on my left ear and my favorite cat was holding my ear with her tender paws and chomping away.   I started to cry and then for some unexplained reason I started to laugh.  It was a great release from the absurdity of the moment.  My family rushed out and my sister was looking for a camera.  My mother held her from her search. 
   
              I got to take a long bath at midday while my sister was on the phone telling her friends of her Oatmeal Chicken Bone brother.