Hoppin'
Mad
 A long,
long time ago, when I was just a kidling, our Easter morning
tradition was
for us kids to don our fanciest duds and then pile into
the family heap, each sib clutching his or her
empty
easter
basket
close to their hearts in an expectant death grip. Dad
would then chauffeur us down to the local park, or down
by the levees,
aimlessly tooling along whistling a happy tune.
Eventually
he'd find the perfect spot, stop
the car, get out, and ceremoniously hand the keys
over to Mom. In his hand, appearing as if by magic, was
a large
and somewhat menacing stick,
which
he
earnestly said
he would be using to beat the eggs out that dang old
easter bunny.
Yeah, that was Dad.
I really wanted to stay and watch this amazing spectacle
but Mom had orders to take us kids sight-seeing out of
visual range of Dad's lapinal assault. Finally, after about
twenty exciting
minutes of trees, trees, and more trees we arrived back
where we started, Dad waving us in like a DC-10.
The scene
was always disappointingly free of carnage, no blood or
shreds
of
rabbit flesh, but
any disappointment was soon mollified by
tantalizing hints of colored objects rising up among
the
sticker patches. The melee that followed, I'm sad to say,
was unextraordinary. You seen one Easter scrum, you seen
'em all.
If I'd had kids of my own there's no doubt I would have
kept Dad's memory alive with a few rabbit-thumpings of
my own, so I'll just have to settle on sharing a little
bit of the old guy with you this Easter.
=Lefty=
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