Greetings from the Triple R Ranch

The Las Vegas People's Flea Market runs every Saturday and Sunday morning through the year, regardless of weather. My son, age 12, calls it the Communist Junk Swap. Once a month I haul bags of forgotten crap from my garage, from my closet, toss them in the back of my neighbor's pick-up along with our most ragged Mexican blanket, and hand her a plate of homemade biscochitos for the trouble. She dumps us at the entrance. We take our free place among the other poor, spread our wares in uneven rows. Sometimes I place my extra Avon products next to framed photographs of California, but they rarely move. My boys sell their old clothes and toys. Sell no books, I tell them. No books. Books save us from certain death.

Last month, as I recovered from ovarian surgery, I sold the things I swore I would never place on that ground - my old tambourine, a party dress from 1925, a tiny gold ring inset with three emeralds - and I traded them for cold, hard cash. I didn't mind. I'm not the only mom with big dreams and worn pockets at the Communist Junk Swap.

We sat smack in the frayed middle, watched the Rock Man peddle boulders he stole from Corazon Canyon, Tamale Lady hawk spicy carne adovada and beans wrapped with tender cornmeal. I sent my youngest son, 10, to fetch us each a tamale, three for a buck, and we groaned with pleasure as red chili dripped from our fingers. Rabbit Man sat next to us on a cracked plastic lawn chair, a crate of fine plump bunnies at his feet.

"Hey, miss. You like those rabbit I sold you? Did you cook the liver like I told you - with a little cheese and jalapeno stuffed inside? So good. So good."

"No! Yuck!"

10 jumped to his feet.

"Those bunnies are our pets! We're not going to stuff them with cheese and peppers!"

The man laughed. He lifted his cowboy hat and ran dirty fingers through his hair.

"Son, those are 'meat pen' rabbits. They ain't for nothing but dinner."

He laughed again.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?"

I thought about those two bunnies, one white, one black, both girls with boy names, the ones my boys begged me to buy for four bucks each, Flea Market Rabbits destined for something greater than dinner, thought about the solid hutch I built from scrap wood, the way the critters snuggled close when we held them in our laps. Good bunnies,  gentle. I smiled at the rancher and shook my head.

This morning White Bunny growled as I tried to lift her from the hutch for some playtime in the garden. She shied away from me, stared me down with squinted eyes.

Geeze, she looks kinda fat, I thought. I tried to gently lift her again.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

And in that split second I knew. I knew. I grabbed Black Bunny and hauled him feet over head. He seemed to shrug his shoulders as I prodded his privates. Yes. His.

Damn!

Tonight is full moon. The hutch now has a makeshift nesting box filled with hay. White Bunny seems calm now that I understand the situation. 10 and 12 renamed our house the Rough Rider Rabbit Ranch. The boys painted a sign on an old pizza pan and hung it over the front door. Triple R Ranch.

So. How many bunnies will we have by the end of the week?