This time next week, those of us who survived will be cleaning up the fur, blood and chocolate left over from Easter morning. We will remember those we lost and dread their reincarnation as a blood thirsty rabbit and the vengeful return they will make next year. But why focus on the dark and horrifying Easter traditions when there are so many good parts?
One of the best Easter traditions is the Easter Egg Hunt. A bunch of brightly colored plastic eggs, filled with candy and then scattered around an expansive field for children to scurry around and find. It’s magical. It was also the scene of most of my greatest competitive triumphs.
As a child, I was – and I’m not bragging when I say this – no worse than the second greatest egg-hunter of my generation. Much like the Williams sisters in tennis, my younger sister and I spent years jockeying between first and second in the rankings. One of us was always at the top of every nationally-recognized and respected egg-hunting poll. Our names are still said in hushed whispers in churches and YMCAs around the greater Roxborough, PA area as spring dawns, for fear we may return like the souls of rabbit-ravaged loved ones.