You Call That A Privilege

Several weeks ago, Mom and I went out to dinner at the local Chinese buffet and started a conversation on things that we think are a privilege to enjoy.

A few of them are listed below:

  • Eating at a buffet
  • Living in America
  • Sweet tea
  • Living in the Mountains
  • Chocolate chip cookies
  • Hot water
  • Clean restrooms
  • Ice cream
  • Holding a dead rabbit
  • Uh, what’d you say?
  • It was a privilege to hold the rabbit.

Ok, Mom, I think we have a problem.

“Oh, you mean I’ve never told you that story about my dad,” Mom said.

“No, you haven’t. I think I would remember that.”

“Well, I was really young–not yet in first grade and went Daddy killed a rabbit, it was a privilege for us kids to hold the top of the rabbit while he gutted it,” said Mom.

“You don’t say,” I replied, trying not to gag in between bites of my chop suey and Mongolian Beef.

“Yep. I think six or seven of us kids were around at that age and we took turns holding the rabbit. I’ve always had a sensitive stomach, you know?”

“Really? I’m not feeling so good myself,” I said.

“Anyway,” she continued digging into a baked oyster, “it was my turn and Daddy held the rabbit up for me to grab. Now, I didn’t want to miss my turn, so I closed my eyes and grabbed the rabbit.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” Mom said. “I passed out.”

Oh.

“Where are you going?” she asked as I got up from the table.

“I don’t know, but I hope it has a clean restroom.”

 

 

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