Daddy jumped out of the family car when he saw us approach. My brother Billy sat in the car’s backseat calmly eating fried pork skins. Clearly relieved to see us, Daddy fussed, “I worried that you might be having so much fun shopping, that you’d forget what time to come back to the car!”

Mom assured him, “I had fun, but I remembered you wanted to get home at a reasonable time. You start your evening chores at 4 p.m. every day like clockwork. Then you milk the cows.” Betty, Mary and I got into the car. My three siblings and their purchases were packed in the backseat, while I wedged myself between Mom and Daddy in the front seat along with more packages. As we pulled away from where our car was parked, I worried that Daddy was in such a big hurry to get home to do barn chores, that he would skip my favorite part of a shopping trip to Marshfield. I leaned against him and begged, “Please Daddy, can we stop at Clover Cream for ice cream?”

With a twinkle in his eyes, Daddy cheerfully responded, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!” I knew his answer was ‘yes!’ He liked the rhyme, which was from an old-time song, and often said it when we asked for ice cream.  

Living on a farm 12 miles from Marshfield, we seldom went shopping in the bigger city. Most of our supplies came from Stratford, a small town only three miles from our farm. However, with Easter Sunday being three weeks away, Mom determined that we needed to visit Marshfield to buy new hats and gloves to wear to church. We found what we were looking for, and more!

After supper, Mom hid one of her shopping bags in a closet. I smiled, realizing it contained Easter Bunny treats. Together, we admired the pretty hats Mom had bought. I especially liked my new lavender spring jacket, because last year’s jacket was too small.

My sisters, Betty and Mary were already in their shared bedroom when I joined them. They were giggling because they had snagged a small fuzzy chick decoration from Mom’s shopping bag. The body of the cute little creature was the size of a shooter marble. The head and body were covered with a thick mat of yellow bristles. Small black beads served as eyes and a small orange beak was glued below. Its legs and claws were wires covered with orange tape.

My sister Mary had to leave the room for a while. When she came back, she asked Betty to give her the chick so she could look at it again. Betty said, “I don’t have it. You must have it.” I hadn’t kept track of where it was. Where it disappeared was a mystery.

The next day Mary opened one of her books and found the yellow chick squashed between the pages. She said, “Hmmph!” and with a smirk, tucked it into Betty’s clothing drawer.

Later that day, I happened to be there when Betty found the chick. She snickered and hid it in the toe of one of Mary’s shoes.

For the rest of the week, I kept my mouth shut and watched this undeclared game. Each day the chick turned up in strange, unexpected places. I enjoyed their secretive operations and considered my teenaged sisters to be very cool.

On Easter Sunday, our Easter baskets had cute little fuzzy chicks in them, along with other treats. Much to my disappointment, the hide-and-seek yellow fuzzy chick disappeared permanently one day. I figured that either Mary or Betty had found the ultimate hiding place.

As I grew up, each Easter I remembered the year Betty and Mary played their curious, unspoken hide and seek game with the yellow fuzzy chick. I wonder if the small chick is still somewhere in the bedroom my two sisters shared. Maybe it is wedged in a closet rafter. If it is, it stayed hidden, even when I did my final house cleaning before the family home was sold.