The Great Easter Egg Hunt

[Shari Blair]

The first time I knew I was a competitive little knucklehead was The
Great Easter Egg Hunt when I was five years old. It was held in our
little church in Duluth because it was barely zero degrees outside,
and snow still covered the city like a stubborn relative staying at
your house long after the Holidays even though the turkey and gravy
and hospitality are long gone.
My folks, along with thirty or so other parents, held us back. That
included my brother and two sisters. We pushed against the back of
Easter dresses and wool suit pants as we crowded the hallway leading
to the spectacular basement event. A bare linoleum floor made a
pathetic hiding surface. Most of the eggs were lying embarrassingly
naked at the foot of folding tables and chairs. They were easy to spot
before our priest gave the word. They were real eggs, too. Hard
boilers. My favorite. Dyed in rainbow colors on the outside. Ready for
a mound of salt and a single magnificent swallow.
For proper race track positioning, I elbowed my way past my three year
old sister to the front of the pack, promising her I'd get as many of
the delicious prizes for her as I could. Dismissing my older sister's
admonishing eyes, I fought my way to the perfect launching pad for my
plan. My brother had trouble keeping up with me for the best spot. Now
that I think of it, at a couple of years older then me, he might have
figured out there's something "irreverent," a no-no word in our house,
about going all out in the competition. My older sister, too. Fools.
Our priest said a prayer. I think it was something about blessing the
taste of fresh eggs. He hesitated, smiling. To me, he was giving the
other boys my age time to get the same kind of advantage I had worked
so hard for. It felt terribly unfair. Then I heard the starting pistol
of his high pitched voice.
"Go."
When it was over, I had eleven eggs. Next best was three. I gave one
to my little sister but refused such sympathies with my older
siblings. Before we left for home, my mom made me give one each to two
younger kids who got shut out, and that was O.K. I'd eaten five or six
big ones by then. I sat in the tiny kitchen by myself, the shells
lying all over, a shaker in my hand. It was my great heroic reward,
and even though I felt a little sick to my stomach, I kept eating. I
made the rest of my family wait for me and pay homage to my victory.
They didn't let me give The Great Easter Egg Hunt a go the next year.
They started a five and under policy.
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