Hi again List, This Easter I am reminded of how special Easter was when I was a child in Millheim. In particular, I'm remembering one Easter when I was about five years old. My sister, brother and I awoke with great anticipation. The Easter Bunny always left us wonderful baskets full of candy eggs and chocolate bunnies. That Easter was no exception. There were the baskets with all the goodies we expected, each delicious piece nestled on a bed of green plastic grass. We were allowed one piece each before breakfast, and I always picked the biggest foil wrapped bunny in the basket. After breakfast my Dad brought in a huge cardboard box. We looked at it in puzzlement, and then, to our amazement, it cheeped! Dad put the box on the floor in the kitchen, and opened it. Imagine our excitement when he gently picked up three little colored chicks and placed them on the floor. My sister immediately picked up the pink chick, and my brother went for the blue one. My favorite was the purple one. Of course, we immediately named our new pets. The pink one promptly soiled my sister's nightgown, and was appropriately named Trouble. Mine was named Sally after one of the characters in my school reader. The blue one was the smallest, and my brother named it simply Chick. Being two at the time, Chick was as imaginative as he could get. We enjoyed them for weeks. As all chicks do, Trouble, Sally and Chick eventually outgrew both their colors and the cute stage, and my Dad suggested that they might be happier with the other chickens in the coop on Grandpa Bechtol's farm. Being normal kids, we didn't want to give up our feathered friends, but Dad told us we could visit them any time we wanted, and that chickens needed their freedom. So, for months afterwards we visited them at the farm. Grandpa always pointed them out to us, and they seemed happy and content with their fellow chickens, and of course, we were proud of ourselves for having given them their freedom. Years later, when I was a little more grown up and a little less gullible, I realized that Grandpa Bechtol couldn't tell one of his chickens from the other, yet he lovingly pointed out our special friends to us each time we asked. That's what makes grandparents so wonderful. So, with Easter just around the corner, I remember fondly those days long ago, and say a special prayer of thanks for my "Pappy Bechtol". In loving memory, George Cleveland Bechtol, 1884-1958 Diana Mason