Source: http://ift.tt/hFWySe - Friday, April 03, 2015
Easter egg hunts have traditionally been chaotic. When my brothers and I were little, our sibling hunt occurred on the morning of Easter Sunday. We'd spend the day or two before dyeing real eggs with our parents, using the clear crayon to draw little messages, smiles and flowers -- and as we got older, we began writing things like "boner" and drawing nipples on the tops of the eggs. I don't know, I guess sometimes boys will be boys. Each year, we would expect EB to give us a real challenge and hide the two dozen eggs in different places than before. We would inevitably come up short, spending Sunday afternoon and the days following literally walking on eggshells looking for the missing egg, until my dad would stuff his foot into a house slipper, releasing an ungodly sulphur bomb as well as a few choice words. We had other "hunts" surrounding the Easter holiday, sometimes at the church or local firehouse -- and while an attempt was always made to keep them organized and somewhat ruly, my mom reminds me that these functions have always been a circus. Instead of a lazy skip and a hop through the grass with your dainty Longaberger basket, she compared it to the running of the bulls in Spain. Bodies flying every which way, kids knocking heads trying to go for the same prolate spheroid, the parents standing on the sidelines chatting and exchanging proud smiles. I felt like back then there was some sense of etiquette, no? Last weekend,
from Top News on RSS Feeds http://ift.tt/19U2klb
Easter egg hunts have traditionally been chaotic. When my brothers and I were little, our sibling hunt occurred on the morning of Easter Sunday. We'd spend the day or two before dyeing real eggs with our parents, using the clear crayon to draw little messages, smiles and flowers -- and as we got older, we began writing things like "boner" and drawing nipples on the tops of the eggs. I don't know, I guess sometimes boys will be boys. Each year, we would expect EB to give us a real challenge and hide the two dozen eggs in different places than before. We would inevitably come up short, spending Sunday afternoon and the days following literally walking on eggshells looking for the missing egg, until my dad would stuff his foot into a house slipper, releasing an ungodly sulphur bomb as well as a few choice words. We had other "hunts" surrounding the Easter holiday, sometimes at the church or local firehouse -- and while an attempt was always made to keep them organized and somewhat ruly, my mom reminds me that these functions have always been a circus. Instead of a lazy skip and a hop through the grass with your dainty Longaberger basket, she compared it to the running of the bulls in Spain. Bodies flying every which way, kids knocking heads trying to go for the same prolate spheroid, the parents standing on the sidelines chatting and exchanging proud smiles. I felt like back then there was some sense of etiquette, no? Last weekend,from Top News on RSS Feeds http://ift.tt/19U2klb
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