To Ben Franklin’s at Easter - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

To Ben Franklin’s at Easter - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

As Spring approaches, I recall the excitement of Easters long ago. Yes, I am aware of the religiosity of the time, but as a kid, baby chicks were more a critical part of that enthusiasm and, at the time, more spiritual. And Ben Franklin’s, the “Five and Dime” was a destination.

There were two Franklin stores I frequented: one nearby, the other on Federal Hill in Providence, in the middle of the Italian enclave and a destination for my parents every Saturday evening.

On those Saturdays, they strolled, shopped, met friends, and bought fresh produce from the pushcart vendors. At Ben’s, I bargained, with difficulty, often losing, with my Dad to get something, anything, even though I wasn’t sure what I wanted.

GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLAST

When Franklin’s received its annual shipment of baby chicks, I sped across its long wooden aisles passing the dry goods, cloths, mops, detergents, and toys, to the peeps and smells of chicks and musty grain. I stood on tiptoes to see those lovable balls of fluff crammed in their high glass enclosure, warming under the glow of soft yellow bulbs. Chicks scampered everywhere; in their water, in their feed, and on each other. I bought the two warmest and fluffiest, and I hurried home.

I deposited them in a cardboard box lined with newspaper and tucked the box behind the warm kitchen stove. Every afternoon, I hurried home from school to watch the cuddly balls bobbing and winding along on little legs and pointed toes. They ate, slept, and defecated . . . everywhere . . . on the paper, in their food, in their water, and on each other. The chicks grew quickly. After Easter, my cousins tired of their two, so I appropriated them.

One day, I found them wandering about the kitchen, leaving a trail. A deeper box topped by an old screen did not help. Before long they jumped, knocked the screen off, stood on the box, flapped their no longer tiny wings, and glided to the floor. The chicks needed to be outdoors.

Grandfather built a pen. One day, while I was sitting in the yard, I saw an ominous bird perched on our clothes pole. He made an athletic swoop toward the chickens, tried to pluck one, but was unsuccessful. “What’s that scary thing?”

“An owl.”

The chickens had to go. Too big and too appealing to predators, they no longer belonged in the neighborhood. We gave them to my uncle’s father, who was farming land not far from our home. He said, “It-sa the perfeck place. They can stay in-na-the coop or… run-aroun’. You no haf-a-fa ta worry about the big-a bird or the poop. It-sa good-a fa the garden.”

He said I could visit anytime. I did, once, but I was unable to identify mine in the crowd of other chickens.

I wondered what happened to those once cuddly little pets. I never got an answer. They kinda just faded away as did those Five and Dime Stores.

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more HERE.