Hate is a powerful word.

We should be careful not to unleash its formidable force.

My mother didn’t approve of the use of the word &uot;hate.&uot;

If I used it, I’d get that look of disappointment from my mother.

I loved my mother. I hated that look, but dared not to say so.

Such a statement would earn me another look.

This story I am about to share with you took place in a time when I was a boy who spent most of his free time trying to walk and talk like John Wayne.

It was a time of my life when I’d just get used to yesterday when along would come today.

Oh, wait, I’m still in that part of my life.

It was a time when lunches came in old bread bags, cars rode on recapped tires and 100 miles could just as well have been 1,000 miles.

It was a time when I was delighted by much, saddened by some and surprised by almost everything.

We had interesting neighbors.

We had a neighbor who was so rich that he owned two suits.

We had a neighbor who had welded two bicycles together.

They called them Siamese Schwinns.

The same neighbor had six lawn mowers because he knew that the grass grows twice as fast when the mower is broken.

We had a neighbor boy who was a few years older than I was.

He only worked at jobs that offered him work shirts with his name printed above the pocket. This was an early example of clothes captioning.

We had neighbors who raised rabbits.

They raised them and they ate them.

They liked to dine on rabbit. To them every rabbit except Peter Cottontail and the Easter Bunny was meant to become hasenpfeffer.

They ate all the rabbits they raised except one.

Their daughter fell in love with one rabbit.

It was a lop-eared version that she named Flopsy. The ears were cool, the way they flopped around when Flopsy moved about.

Some body parts should be floppy.

The daughter was a fetching lass who was plenty smart.

She once re-folded a road map on the first try.

The daughter loved Flopsy.

The parents loved their daughter.

The daughter made a tearful plea for Flopsy’s life.

She was good.

She could have sold a bracelet

to Venus de Milo.

The family relented and the daughter was as excited as an all-star shortstop in a Mercedes dealership.

Flopsy cheated the dinner table and became a pet.

Flopsy became a house pet.

Flopsy was more than just a house bunny. On occasion, he would sneak a ride into town in the family’s Buick without anyone’s knowledge.

He was a trespassenger.

I liked Flopsy.

Everyone needs a friend who is all ears. Flopsy was a good listener and reminded me that I should strive to become likewise. An uncle of mine told me that you never see a fish on the wall with its mouth shut.

It was his polite way of telling me to shut up.

Flopsy seemed content being a rabbit and appeared to have no ambition to be anything else.

Flopsy made me want to have my happy thoughts multiply like rabbits.

But life wasn’t perfect as we all hopped down the bunny trail.

Flopsy had some bad habits.

Habits that were unhealthy.

Flopsy chewed everything.

He left little rabbit pellets everywhere.

Milk Duds for dieters.

The daughter cleaned up after the rabbit and made excuses for his behavior.

The father was a bit of a grump.

He thought that the biggest problem with the younger generation was that he wasn’t in it.

That rabbit was like Bugs Bunny and the father was like Elmer Fudd. The two had a feud going.

One day, I was visiting the family that raised rabbits, all except one, for the table.

We were gathered around the kitchen table when Flopsy shuffled by.

He wasn’t really much of a hopper.

&uot;I hate that rabbit,&uot; said the father.

&uot;I wish he’d drop dead.&uot;

He hadn’t much more than finished his statement, when we heard sort of a zapping sound and the lights dimmed momentarily.

We all ran into the living room and found Flopsy kicking his last on the floor.

Flopsy had chewed his last item.

It was the cord leading to a lamp. Flopsy had electrocuted himself.

Flopsy had a bad hare day.

I was afraid of the father after that.

He had wished for Flopsy’s death and his wish had come true.

Hate is a powerful word.

Try not to use it.

(Hartland resident Al Batt writes a column for the Tribune each Wednesday and Sunday.)