there was a wheeled chicken

My sister and I shared many toys, in early life. And when I suggest early, that's exactly what I mean- the time of life when rocking horses and cars you power with your feet were all the rage. The one-point-fives through threes of life, let's say. So, long before the My Little Pony collection became de facto shared, there was a riding toy that we both enjoyed, a wheeled thing that was more or less a big yellow chicken.

It was mine, I swear. She only felt entitled to it because I loved it so. And the fights that would ensue, over who had rights to this "Bawk Bawk Chicken"... they were awful indeed. I can't understand it, because I'm no longer two years old, and not so possessive. Also because have a clear idea of what this thing looked like, unearthing it in my parents' attic several years ago.

It was a fairly solid brick of bright yellow plastic, with red and blue paint detailing the chicken's eyes, beak, wings and feathers. And the wheels, the tiny wheels, were bright blue. I seem to remember a pushing-handle, too. What sane parents would want to be seen pushing a riding-chicken around the neighborhood, their precious little babe astride? The mind reels, from the vantage point of adult blogger, sans children.

The fights were awful, though. I know most of the details secondhand, as I apparently blocked out the direct memories. My little sister time and time again would corner me near the fridge, screaming and ferociously threatening, demanding that I dismount the Bawk Bawk Chicken and surrender it to her. When this failed to work, she apparently leaped upon me, like some tiny Caliban or Enkidu, and began biting and tearing at my head. I didn't fight back, is the general opinion of my family.

This is exactly the sort of thing I learn when I do that "home for the holidays" thing. The cordials loosen my mother's mind, and she recollects amusements like the kitchen fights that took place over the wheeled chicken. We laugh, almost together, and my parents confess that they were shocked and dismayed at the time. Now, it's a tale to recall fondly, and opportunity to wonder why my sister was so fiercely feral at one time. She doesn't know, I don't know, and last I heard of it, the Bawk Bawk Chicken was consigned to that same rental dumpster that made cleaning out my grandma's house possible.

That's the best place for nasty bits of childhood like that- thrown out and laughed about. I wish I could do more pitching, and more laughing.