There’s only one Easter egg hunt that I recall with some detail. It was at the old Nichols store on Route 30 in Amsterdam. In a storage area with high unfinished ceilings, and a cement floor strewn with straw, a bunch of kids were let loose to find a golden egg. The one who found said egg would win a prize – in this case an enormous chocolate rabbit from Fariello’s. My lactose-intolerant ass was largely uninterested in that much chocolate, but it would be nice to find such a special egg among all the cheap plastic pastel bullshit that kept turning up as I waded through the smelly straw. I was in it to win it, and I scrambled with the rest of the kids, including my brother, as we searched and sought out the elusive golden egg.
Our baskets filled with the colorful also-rans, and I soon grew anxious that others were going to find it first. Part of me also slowed, not wanting to accept the notoriety and attention in which finding that golden egg would result. My shyness was almost crippling as a child. I hesitated and paused, going through the motions but not actively pursuing paths others hadn’t yet taken. Luckily, someone else found it first, which ended any dilemma of stumbling upon the pretty oblong object and dealing with all that attention. And it just happened to be my brother.
The prize was almost as tall as he was (though it ended up being hollow, much to our collective disappointment) and I think the local newspaper took a photo of him beside it. We ended up eating chocolate for months, even if it upset my stomach. One doesn’t look a gift bunny in the mouth.
