ESSAY: Happy Easter
When I was eleven years old, I lived with my grandparents in Springhill, Louisiana. My sixth grade class had an Easter-egg hunt in the town park. Each student was to bring a dozen hard-boiled, colored eggs to class on Good Friday. The teacher and parents would hide them in the park for a hunt on Easter Sunday.
My grandmother boiled and colored the eggs. She wrapped them in scraps of print cloth (from old dresses made from feed sacks) and boiled them. The egg shells absorbed the cloth dye, coming out looking sort of like tie-dyed fabrics do in more modern times.
I was devastated! I was expecting colored bands produced by dipping the eggs in cups of different colored dye, like the other kids brought. But my grandmother did it; I couldn’t complain. I turned my eggs in with a heavy heart.
I would have preferred to skip the hunt, fearing the other students would figure out I had brought the weird eggs. I went on the hunt, finding eggs with a fearful heart, when I heard someone cry: “Look at this one! It’s Neat!” (Actually, this was before kids said: Neat, but you get the idea) It was one of my grandmother’s eggs. From then on everyone wanted the weirdly colored eggs.
There are several morals to this story: Don’t be too much of a conformist; Trust your grandmother; Let the schools celebrate Easter… I’ve made a pretty good career out of the first. It was a Happy Easter.