Every year at Easter time I take a trip down memory lane to one of the most horrifying memories of my childhood. It was 1985 and I believed strongly in the Easter Bunny. I was 10 years old. The Easter of 1985 proved to be no let down by the Easter Bunny , as “he” loaded our baskets down with much approved Easter goodies; I’m talking peeps of every color, jelly beans, malted milk eggs, Cadbury eggs, a miniature Peter Cottontail complete with sugary eyes, nose and flowers—the goody list was endless, and I was quite satisfied!
The next day was Monday and I was off to school, I nestled my basket between my bed and nightstand—the peeps now out of their packages being dried to perfection, Peter Cottontail was out of his box waiting to be consumed, and the jelly beans were out of their bag so I could easily pick my way through my favorite flavors. The whole day at school I day-dreamed of hardened peeps, Peter Cottontails sugary eyes and jelly beans with their hard outer shells and jelly insides. As soon as I got off the bus I ran into the house and straight to my room. I flipped on the light and went right for my basket. . . . “What the ******?!?!” my Easter basket, the one I had so carefully hid that morning had been sabotaged!
Every single, and yes I mean every single, jelly bean had been licked clean of its hard outer shell and only the bare-naked jellified bodies lay exposed amongst the pink, green and yellow grass. The hot pink marshmallow peeps that were being aged to perfection now looked as if someone had sucked the life out of them and Peter Cottontail—COME ON!!! Not Peter Cottontail!!!.
There was only one logical answer, and it brought me to tears to fathom it. My dad, Bob. The only one alone in the house all day—had he snuck in my room after my departure for school , and like some Easter candy junkie ravaged my Easter basket, the basket that the Easter Bunny had so lovingly gifted to me??? How dare he!! I was mad, I was so mad I held a silent grudge for two days and then finally I couldn't’t take it anymore—I went to my mom and told her, and. . . . I was met with guffaws, chortles and out right hysterical laughter. No compassion there! Thanks a lot Millie, amidst my thoughts of my dad hunched over my Easter basket sucking the innocent life from my peeps and jelly beans, you mock me?? How dare you!
It just so happens during this time of my life I had “yard doodie” I say doodie, because it involved cleaning up the lovely piles our dog decided to leave randomly through out our backyard, as she couldn't’t seem to keep it to one area. So amidst my anger, confusion and sadness I was sent out to shovel up piles of petrified dog crap. What a life! As I walked across the yard towards my first “assignment”, I was stopped dead in my tracks; there in front of me was a fresh pile of dog poop entwined with brightly colored Easter grass—could it be?? Could it be that our dog had been the Easter bandit? Yes it was our dog! Not my dad--Hallelujah! I had never been so happy to see dog poop in all my life. Our dog was outside with me at that moment and as I shrieked out and ran towards her in sheer happiness she turned and bolted in the opposite direction, and there sticking out of her poor behind were many strands of Easter grass--I later apologized to my dad, however, I will never get that initial vision of him out of my head—hunched over my Easter basket sucking the life out of my jelly beans! or the vision of my dog darting away with Easter grass sticking out of her butt~
