My childhood memories are often anchored to holiday celebrations. Christmas is the biggie, of course, but the hoopla of Easter comes in at a strong second place. There’s the brand new outfit, complete with ridiculous bonnet that will never be worn again. And there is the novelty of coloring Easter eggs. But for foodies like me, that stuff has always taken a back seat to the real treasure of Easter: the big basket of candy. Like Diana Ross, I didn’t need no cure for that sweet Easter hangover, and the only thing better than that big, chocolate bunny with the sugar bow tie was the accompanying egg hunt. But to have an egg hunt, eggs must be hidden, and everyone knows that Easter eggs are hidden by a rodent of unusual size called the Easter Bunny.

So, it was with great anticipation that I colored eggs that Saturday night in about 1976. Using one of those old school egg coloring kits from the grocery store — the kind with the mysterious little tablets and bendable wire egg dunkers — my mom and I had no doubt created several ovum masterpieces. Employing sophisticated techniques such as writing on the egg with white crayon, and using Scotch tape to mask off portions of color, we’d transformed a couple dozen hard boiled eggs into festive little tokens of Easter cheer. As I went to bed that night, my 6-year-old mind raced with thoughts of plastic grass, chocolate bunnies, and the next day’s egg hunt. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

The sun rose at approximately 6:08 a.m., and so did I. No one was awake yet in the quiet house as I shuffled down the hall to the dining room where my Easter basket would be waiting in all its sugary glory. I rounded the corner and stopped dead in my tracks. There was no basket. What? Had the Easter Bunny forgotten me? After a thorough search of the premises, I determined that there was no basket to be found and the eggs had not been hidden. Did the Easter Bunny have a naughty and nice list like Santa, and I didn’t make the cut?
Heartbroken, I went to my mom, who was still in bed, and lamented that the Easter Bunny had forgotten me. Mom, who was clearly as shocked as I was about the situation, instructed me to go back to my room and shut the door. She was going to call the Easter Bunny, and make him come back to our neighborhood. Yeah! You go Mom! You tell that Easter Bunny he’d better get his cotton tail back over here, hide those eggs and bring me some chocolate!
Good old Mom. Caring nurturer, keeper of hearth and home, and righter of holiday wrongs. Mom, who not only has eyes in the back of her head, but also the home phone number of the Easter Bunny and the clout to make him come back right now.
I wasn’t sure why I had to go back to my room. Maybe because my Mom was going to tell that old rabbit about himself in language not fit for my tender ears. Besides, I knew better than to question the wisdom of my mom, who clearly had a handle on how to deal with errant holiday hares. Sure enough, in about 15 minutes she came and got me and said that the Easter Bunny had brought my basket. All was again right with the world as I packed in a pre-breakfast Peep before heading outside to hunt eggs among the spring green grass.

Other articles by Stacey Muncie

• The morel of the story - March 1st, 2010
• Chili - January 1st, 2010
• Rust & Rebellion - January 1st, 2010
• Roses are Red, Violets are Blue. Really, is that the best you can do? - January 1st, 2010
• Now, This Here is a Tree! - November 1st, 2009