Every Good Friday, when I was growing up, my cousins, brothers, and I would trek over to my Grandma and Grandpa's house to color eggs. This is the only time of the year when my Grandparents' bought white eggs from the store instead of using the brown, green, and pink eggs from their own chickens. We would use several egg coloring tablets and every coffee mug in the cupboard. My mom or Aunt Marianne would measure the correct amounts of white vinegar and water and my cousins and I would take turns plopping the colored tablets in the liquid and watch as it fizzled to life. The tablets looked like candy and I was always tempted to taste one, but I never did. I still remember the smell of vinegar and boiled eggs - the wax crayon with which we wrote on the eggs that magically revealed our secret messages upon coloring, the way my Grandma always marveled at the colors, and how my Grandpa got to eat most of our artistic delicacies.
On Easter, my brothers and I would wake-up and immediately begin the search for our Easter baskets. I would check the downstairs shower first, then the closet under the stairs, and thirdly on top of the refrigerator. At least one of these spots housed a basket every year. In the afternoon, my family would reunite at my Grandma and Grandpa's house for some food and the always exciting egg hunt. "Back the barn" is where most of the eggs filled with candy, money, and lotto tickets could be found. I don't remember too much ever being uttered about Jesus and how Easter is technically the celebration of his shining moment - the day he rose from the dead to save us sinners, but we sure had a good time.
Things are different now as I suppose all things eventually become. Grandma and Grandpa are both gone, which to be blunt - totally sucks. I don't even live in the same state, so I didn't celebrate Easter at all. I called my Mom, texted a friend, and went to Portland, OR with some team members to see a band called Horse Feathers play at the public library. All-in-all it wasn't a bad Easter, in fact it was pretty cool. I've never gone to Portland on Easter before, but still I would trade it all in. I would trade in all of my hikes through the moss-covered trees in the mysterious, magical mountains of Washington. I would trade in the trips to Portland, San Fransisco, Seattle, North Dakota, my medals, my money, my mini-van for one more chance to hear my Grandpa fart from an overdose of hard-boiled eggs and my Grandma marvel at the strange orange of a poorly mixed egg.
Happy Easter
You had me at fart how poetic loved it loved it
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