Like that other candy-related holiday--Halloween--I'm not real big on Easter. I kind of don't get it. The Christians (of which, I suppose, I am a begrudging member) have extended the "holiday" into a whole 5-day orgy of death, resurrection, and Godliness. I mean there's "Holy Thursday," "Good Friday," "Easter Sunday," and "Easter Monday." I'm sure Saturday, nestled right there smack in the middle has some kind of significance, too, like maybe the wake of Jesus or something, where everybody got drunk, but I don't know what it's officially called. And really: Easter Monday? Did they plan for a day to recuperate from all that candy and egg-inspired nausea?
So I honestly can't tell you that Easter means anything or inspires any fond memories. Well, there's one, but I'm not sure it's fond or not. I must have been 9 or 10 years old, one Easter Sunday, when the Easter Bunny made a personal visit to yours truly...
Easter Sunday in our house meant church, one of the few Sundays out of the year where my mom--a less-than-devout Sunday school teacher (she bitched and moaned about it all the time, but I think she enjoyed it) made us go to church, us being my older brother Rick and I. My dad...forget it. He'd drop us off, go pick up the morning newspapers (the Allentown Morning Call and the Reading Eagle) and have a smoke at the Y Cigar Store, his own personal place of worship. By the age of 10, church had become something to endure for me, even though we had this spiffy new church up on the hill that was beautiful. As usual, my mom had a hard time getting me out of bed and finally resorted to coming in, yanking the covers off me and then yelling in great surprise, "WHAT DID YOU DO?!!"
My bed--and me--were covered in some kind of brown goo, which could either be chocolate or something far, far worse. My mom--bless her heart--immediately went to the dark side. "YOU'RE TOO OLD TO BE DOING THIS! I'M NOT CLEANING IT UP! THESE SHEETS ARE RUINED!" went the continual lament, until my brother bolted out of bed in the room next door and stood sheepishly at my bedroom door and confessed.
He had thought it would be funny to hide some small chocolate Easter eggs in my bed while I was sleeping, under the covers and near my feet, so I could wake up and think the Easter bunny came and visited, I guess. But I was always a thrasher, so the eggs were drawn up closer to me. I repeatedly rolled around on them and mashed them up and they escaped their little, colorful foil wrappers to smear all over my PJs and the sheets, melting from my body heat, thus offering, your honor, evidence that I had crapped myself during the night.
My mom was relieved that wasn't the case--as was I--but still pissed. If an Easter bunny was in plain sight, I'm sure he would have been strangled. We all recovered and begrudgingly went off to church, but if I remember correctly, those baskets of chocolate eggs sat uneaten that Easter, met with uneasy stares and queasy stomachs.