In less than 24 hours, I’ll be on the hunt.
Thankfully, for Clinton’s sake, I won’t need a weapon for finding treasures Saturday. Equipped with only my bare hands, I will scavenge around my home, looking for Easter eggs with my wife and daughter.
This won’t be a walk in the park, especially since I can’t find the remote on a daily basis. And, if I’m competing against my daughter, I may need some help, at least according to our day-care provider. On Thursday, they held their hunt, and my daughter showed her competitive drive (she must get that from my wife) and pulled out her elbows and searched for eggs.
Despite being only a 1-year-old, she figured out that the unusually shaped object contained something. She dug deep to locate her inner caveman (she must get that from me) and threw the egg to the floor, causing it to reveal its hidden gem. And just like any other hunter, the day ended, since she nabbed the biggest prize of all — a frosted mini-wheat.
Hearing about her adventures brought me back to my childhood, when the annual Easter egg hunt amounted to plenty of memories.
My hometown had a grand Easter egg hunt, and my granddad always took my brothers and me to battle it out with other kids for the 1 minute while the eggs were still on the ground. In the end, though, having the most eggs didn’t always generate the best feelings, since my mom (doing her best to make us feel uncomfortable) always made sure we “donated” some of our prizes to kids who didn’t fare so well.
Being the youngest of three brothers also brought certain obstacles throughout life, including participating in the Easter egg hunt at home. I never inherited an aggressive gene, putting me at an unfair advantage against my two older, more physical brothers.
Luckily for me, though, I had my parents in my corner. We each were given a certain amount of eggs and if my brothers found mine (which was often) they were not to touch them.
No one was mistaking me for Magellan at the Levine household, since it took me forever to find the eggs, even though my mom hid them in easy-to-find places. Eventually, my brothers got tired of me searching in the wrong places, and stood in the general vicinity of my initialed eggs.
However, I hesitate calling the objects we found “eggs.” Unbeknownst to my brothers and me, my parents stretched the dollar back in the 1980s, by using a different kind of egg. According to my mom, Legg’s pantyhose came in a container shaped like an egg, giving her the idea to use the containers as continuous plastic eggs, instead of buying ones at the grocery store.
This revelation has provided me with my first, “back when I was younger,” lecture soon to be delivered to my daughter. When I was growing up, my dad always told the same story when we ate sloppy joes. According to him, we should all be thankful for having buns with sloppy joes, since during his childhood, he was forced to eat the loose meat delights with bread. Now my daughter has to look forward to a similar story; only this time it will be about having real, plastic eggs.
Ultimately, Easter revolves around religion, and my family has, and will continue to celebrate that aspect this weekend. But this week, along with all other holidays, is also about creating memories and family traditions.
My granddad passed away almost two years ago, and up until the day he died, he jokingly asked me if I needed a ride to the Easter egg hunt every year around this time. That memory meant something to him, and although I didn’t think much about it during the years, it’s now something I won’t forget.
And hopefully, my wife and I can continue some of those same traditions and start new ones as our lives progress. Because no matter how small something seems at the time, you never know what lasting impact it will have.
Scott Levine is the Associate Editor at the Clinton Herald. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. He has been employed with the Herald since 2008.