Here Comes Peter Cottontail - HIDE!

The words of the popular Easter song warning me that Peter Cottontail was hopping down the bunny trail could send me into a fit of hysterics as a child.  I didn’t care if hippity-hoppity Easter was on its way or not.  I wanted that dang rabbit to keep his distance.  I had a love/hate thing with ole Peter Cottontail.  I loved that he brought me a basketful of candy on Easter morning.  I hated that he would show up at the last place I’d expect to see him. 

I am not sure why this unjustified terror took hold of me, but I know where it started.  I'm not entirely sure it's unjustified.  Though completely accidental, the deeply seeded fear was planted at Jack’s Surplus, a discount store.  My dad called it Tokyo Jack’s.  I guess because most of the merchandise was made in Japan, or maybe it was cheaply made.  I’m really not sure, but I do know that was about my favorite place to shop.   It never benefited me much to go with my mom because she never bought me anything.  We’d roam the aisles while I made mental notes on what I’d ask Grandma Coleman to buy me the next time we shopped.

My favorite section was the shoes.  They had some of the greatest clogs anyone in Indiana could possibly lay eyes on.  And there were wedgies, too.  Grandma had taught me all about them because while I might have shared my love of dogs with my grandpa and my love of Spanish with my kindergarten teacher, Grandma knew a good pair of shoes when she saw them. 

I admired a pair of avocado green sling back wedgie clogs.  These shoes had it all, including a cork heel.    I would have to figure out a way to get grandma to take me to Jack's.   

My mom was the best mind reader in the world.  Never mind what they said about moms having eyes in the back of their heads.  If my mom had them, she didn’t need them because she somehow knew what I was thinking.  If she had a crystal ball and some scarves, she could have been a gypsy fortune teller.   Even without the accessories, she knew what I was up to. 

“Don’t you even think about having your grandma get those for you,” she said.  “You’re feet aren’t big enough, and you aren’t old enough.” 

It was useless to try to clue her in on how grandma showed me that you could take a piece of newspaper, ball it up, and put it in the toes of shoes if they were a little bit too big.  I’d done it all the time when I played dress up in her things.  It wouldn't be long until I could wear a woman's size 5 1/2, anyway.  Everyone said I was growing like weed. 

I could have made my argument, but a voice came over the speaker and caused me to stop and listen.

“Attention:  The Easter Bunny has arrived!” a cheerful voice sounded throughout the store. 

This was mom’s chance to lead me away from the shoes I didn’t need, but wanted.  “Let’s go see the Easter Bunny.” 

I don’t know what the voice was so happy about because he was scarier than my mental image of the devil who was going to load my parents up and take them off to hell since they didn't go to church (no dying required).   All the storybooks and cartoons I’d seen had made me think he was a cute and lovable sort who hopped around his bunny trail delivering chocolate rabbits and jelly beans. 

There had to be some mistake.  This guy was at least 15’ tall and was wearing bibbed overalls.  His fur was matted and crazy like a cat with mange or a dog that was in need of a good de-burring. 

“Go on, go see him,” my said and pushed me forward.

“No!” I screamed and ran the other direction.

“Oh, c’mon,” my mom urged. 

The rabbit didn’t speak, but just stared at me with those huge hollowed out eyes.  I couldn’t threaten to kick his big, vacant eyes out because someone had apparently beaten me to the punch. 

“He won’t hurt you,” my mom continued to urge.  "Kelly Kay." 

Yeah, that’s what they all say, I thought while my mom tried to coax me out from a rack of polyester pantsuits, promising me we could go home. 

The worst part was that he was stationed by the cash registers.  I felt him eyeing me with those huge empty eye sockets.  He looked like an Easter zombie.  I kept my eyes peeled should have make any sudden moves and leave his Easter area as my mom checked out. 

I never felt the same about Jack’s Surplus City.  Even when Grandma took me, she had to promise me that the Easter Bunny wasn’t there before I’d even get out of the car.  Not even the love of fashionable shoes could make me trust the place again. 

Everyone tried to convince me that it wasn’t the “real” Easter bunny that I saw.  In fact, they said it was a man dressed up like him.  He was just one of the Easter Bunny’s helpers.  I wasn’t buying it.  No one who loved children and delivering candy, and withstood the likes of Iron Tail in the cartoon would send something like that to Jack’s.  I didn’t care and no amount of convincing was going to work.  I did not, nor would I ever, trust that rabbit. 

Completely unassuming of any impending jeopardy, I later found myself at church for an Easter party.  I really didn’t want to go.  I would have been happy to stay home and color or play with my dolls. I'm sure my mom saw it as an opportunity for a break, so she loaded me up, and dropped me off.   

A lady used the feltboard and taught us about the very first Easter.  She put up a picture of a cave with a big rock against the doorway.  But since it was a good Friday for God, he sent angels to roll the rock away.  This made the angels happy because Jesus was his son, and had raisins.  Or something like that, anyway.  The details were sketchy, and I was too busy wondering how they paper stuck to the board without falling off. 

That was definitely something I needed, and I would ask Grandma C to get me one.  Maybe they had them at Jack’s, and I wanted one badly enough that I would risk seeing that scary rabbit if it meant I got a feltboard.  But then again, maybe I would tell Grandma to look the next time she was there.  The image of the rabbit who was a man pretending to be a rabbit picked by the real Easter Bunny still haunted me.  I had planned on staying in bed that Easter night, not taking any chances as to what I might see if I got up to get a drink of water and go to the bathroom.   

“Okay everyone,” the feltboard lady said as happy as the voice on the speaker in Jack’s, “We all have to hide now because the Easter Bunny is coming!” 

If there was never a real reason to be afraid, I now had one.  I might have been a scaredy-cat, but something told me it was bad news if you had to hide somewhere from something. 

They took us into the stairwell leading up from the church basement to the first floor and closed the door behind us.  I hunkered down on the steps to not risk being seen from the small window on the landing.  I was sure if the rabbit saw me that would be the end of me. 

Something translated in a most twisted way that day adding even more reasons to fear Peter Rabbit.  Okay, he was coming.  We were hiding.  Why would we hide from him unless we were in eminent danger?  This was not a good sign at all, and apparently, my paranoia was just.  The Easter Bunny was obviously wicked, as I had suspected. 

An older girl saw me crying and tried to make me feel better.  She told me that there was nothing to be afraid of, and unless she knew something I didn’t know, she had to be nuts. 

After the coast was clear, the lady tried to lure me back to the basement.  When I wouldn’t budge, and had drawn a crowd of the other grownups, she grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the last three steps.  Not only did I have great mistrust for a giant rabbit wearing overalls and sneakers, I came out of hiding for nasty malted robin eggs and some jelly beans, which were disgusting, too. 

As long as I had no in-person encounters with the Easter Bunny, all was fine.  I was torn, though, when Dad teased that Toby, our sheep dog, might chase off the Easter Bunny.  I didn’t know whether to cheer on my dog, or be upset that I might not get my allotment of chocolate. 

I never watched Here Comes Peter Cottontail, in the same light again.  When Peter Cottontail was pitted against the evil Irontail, the nasty, mean rabbit that sported a metal tail because he was ran over by a child on a tricycle, I no longer knew who to root for.  Peter Cottontail or Iron tail.  Hmm, it was the lesser of two evils, and at least Iron tail was supposed to be scary.  

The best I could do was to stay out of his way, and I hoped that he would do the same for me.  It didn’t stop me from double checking what month it was anytime we pulled up to Jack’s Surplus City or I was sent to church for some sort of party.  I wasn’t taking any chances.