Although my mother grew up in a rural area, she had never lived on a farm before marrying my father.
Mom was determined to be a good farm wife. She worked hard, kept us fed and clothed, kept the house clean, nurtured us in every way a mother should, and occasionally helped out on the farm.
Sometimes, especially when Dad was haying, she drove the tractor so a hired hand could help Dad on the ground with the square bales.
One day, she was out by the rabbit pens. I’m not sure what she was doing, but I suspect she was feeding them. Much to her horror, Dad’s prize buck made an escape.
She lunged for him, catching hold just as he started to disappear under the barn — by the tail. She held on tight and tried to pull him back out.
To her horror, the rabbit continued forward and vanished beneath the barn.
That left her standing there — with his tail in her hand and no bunny attached to it.
Later, when quietly explaining to my father what had happened to his rabbit, she said,“I didn’t know their tails would come off.”
“Their tails are delicate, and they will come off if you pull on them,” Dad replied.
I wasn’t privy to that conversation, but it’s not hard to imagine Dad’s laughter when he heard the story.
Through My Eyes, Gently 