Getting groceries was a monthly family adventure from the late 40’s to the mid 50’s. My young brother and I would do all we could to collect scrap metal during the month. On the last day of the month we would load up our little red wagon with our collection and walk down to 15th and Burt for mom to get the months worth of groceries. We would leave right after school and take our metal to the junkyard catty-corner from the grocery store, to collect our earnings for the month. Regardless of who picked up the most metal, the money was always split 50-50.
After collecting what would be our allowance for the month, we crossed back to the store where mom shopped and spent most of what we just earned. Dad was off work at 4:30 and he would meet up at the store and cash his check. Mom would be nearly done shopping by then and we would all walk home together. If there was room in the wagon we could ride sometimes (when we were little), but usually it was loaded to the hilt even with the raised sides.
For whatever reason, mom usually would buy two live chicken and put them in the cage we had brought with us. My brother and I tried on more than one occasion to sell that cage. Mom kept a sharp eye out for that shenanigan. Most of the time, even if we could, we did not want to share space in the wagon with the chickens.
There always seemed to be kids playing in the alley behind out house when we got home. They were gathered there for the big show. Mom and dad both grew up on the farm. Maybe you can take the kid out of the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the kid. Our property was 75’ wide and 150’ long. Our garden was 60x90 with a tiny corner cut our for the rabbit cages. For many years, rabbit was our primary meat source, except for those two chickens each month.
Dad was determined that I was going to learn how to kill and skin a rabbit. No one else I knew even raised rabbits or had to kill and skin them. I was never fond of the idea, but knew I would have to learn. Our basement was entered from the outside and was little more than a dirt cellar carved out under the house. There were four rooms (areas maybe). One small space held all the canning, another had wood pieces piled in case we needed them and the first one held a workbench and all dads’ tools. The back room was the largest. It had a small window located under the bay windows of our living room. That was used as a coal chute. It was a dusty dark area. That was also the killing room.
When I could not longer put off the inevitable, dad got a rabbit and took me down to the basement so I could learn the art of feeding myself from scratch. I’m not sure I should describe how he put the rabbit out of its misery, but it involved a sledgehammer and a very sharp knife. He did the deed in one swift motion. He then cut the rabbit down the middle and remarkably pulled the skin back easy as could be. He cut the feet off to dry and give away as a “lucky rabbits foot.” You would be surprised how many boys had one in their pocket at all times. Personally, I had several. Of course, we were the neighborhood supplier.
He then got another rabbit, brought it in and said it was my turn. I got as far as holding the rabbit by its back feet and I was finished. I could not do it. I doubted I could kill it in one swift motion and the longer my dad thought about it, he finally agreed. It was still too little. I escaped that experience. By the time I most likely could have succeeded in completing the task, dad no longer was raising rabbits. Whew!
After getting the groceries packed away, mom would take her two caged chickens to the back alley to begin preparation for cooking. She would take them both out of the cage by the neck as the kids gathered around with wide eyes and the look of excitement. They did this every month. You would have though it would get old. She would then swing them around and around until their heads came off in her hands and the chicken dropped to the ground running around, well “like a chicken with its head cut off.” The kids would run from the chicken screaming like it was attacking them. They acted like the chicken knew where it was going and was after them. That was the height of neighborhood monthly entertainment. They had to come to us for this show. It never happened at any other house.
When they finally collapsed, mom picked them up and took them to the back porch to pluck them and prepare one for supper. The second was put in the freezer.
Rabbit tastes remarkably like chicken. After I was allowed to have a pet bunny for a while I never wanted to eat rabbit again. But when it was cut up and mixed in with other things, I never knew. I also knew better than to ask. It actually tasted good, so I just ate it and shut up. When mom would fry the rabbit, she couldn’t fool me. Chicken legs and rabbit legs look 
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