On the Easter Trail

There's this children's book my daughter likes my husband and me to read to her; Easter Egg Hunt (or something to that effect). You might think that this is a book we only pull out one or two times a year during the early spring, but any parent of a young child knows that this simply is not true. Like a Christmas episode of Happy Days on the Fourth of July, Easter Egg Hunt could just as easily be a part of the spring reading line-up as it could the Thanksgiving or Chinese New Year’s. Needless to say, all three of us could pull together an impromptu performance of the text at your next dinner party, if you are very desperate for entertainment that clashes with the holiday you are celebrating. We know the book that well.


Recently, however, the Easter Egg Hunt has been a timely read. And while reciting the book last week, I remembered that the Easter Bunny hadn’t finished shopping for our family’s candy yet. This is the thing about parenthood; I often forget my active role in perpetuating the dream of childhood bliss. Doubts flooded my head: How do I get to the store without my daughter asking to come with me? How will I then avoid her Dino Flintstone act when I get back? (No bag gets into the house without her inspection.) Where will I stash the stuff? What if I eat it all before Sunday? Some readers might ask why I didn’t think to call my husband into this dilemma, but, you see, he didn’t grow up with the same traditions of consumerism as I did. Honestly, I think the Easter Bunny role really goes to me simply because I eat the most candy around here. Either way, I take my responsibility seriously.

My break came on my birthday. The three of us sat at the table stuffed with chocolate cake. Candle smoke mixed with the sweet scent of the red roses my husband had given me. After praising the meal and my company, I grabbed my running shoes and reusable grocery bag. I was out the door before the dishes had even been cleared (it’s an unspoken rule in our home that birthdays make one exempt from dishwashing). Hippity-hop, hippity-hop. I was down the trail in no time.

Trails in children’s stories lead to enchanted places like gingerbread houses, castles, pots of gold, or dragon’s lairs. The trail I was on is a running path that parallels the main road through our suburban housing development. While I admit this route is classically beautiful in that it is lined with trees, parks, a pond, and a lake, it ends, or least my journey along the path ended, at a pharmacy. Not quite as exciting a destination as in adventure and fairy tales. But at thirty-three years of age, I felt as vigorous as any knight on a quest. I walked to the cheery evening songs of robins and paused only once to marvel at the field of greenbrier outside the homeowner’s association office, not for a breather, but to imagine residents with late payments caught in the thorny arms of this sinister sentry. (It was as close to a dragon as I could get.) Yet it wasn’t this sight that distracted me; it was the “for sale” sign in front of the house at the next corner that took me off course. Dinner in my stomach curdled. The golden, Spanish-style home would change hands, and I am not wealthy enough to buy it.

While I mean to do more reading on the subject, I am fairly certain that New Jersey felt little colonial Spanish influence at it inception. Despite this, a gorgeous hacienda stands on about an acre of land and, according to the realtor’s handout on the place, was custom built by the owner in the early eighties. For some reason, I am drawn to the home. I have relandscaped the grounds in my mind a million times, literally every time I have ever walked past the house, because if I were the owner, I would use the spacious front lawn for a labyrinth of hedges and secret fountains. I’d also tile the kitchen from floor to ceiling in brilliantly colored Mexican tiles (if the current owners haven’t done so already) because only a house like that could handle such colorful glory. But the reality before me puts my dreams into serious jeopardy. Will new owners reconfigure the home beyond recognition? Will they respect the fantastic out-of-place quality that makes passers-by like me let our dreams squat there freely? I couldn’t help but sigh. I tucked the fact sheet into my pocket and continued down the path toward the pharmacy.

One good thing about waiting until the last minute to purchase holiday candy is that everything is 25% off. The bad thing, of course, is that your selection is limited. I had to dig through quite a few bags of hard gum balls and a squeaky bunny to get to the good stuff. But I managed to get all of my daughter’s favorites. I stood in a long line of last minute parents like me: Easter bunnies on a dash to the finish.

When I got home, I opened the door as slowly and quietly as I could to avoid attracting any attention. I could hear water splashing in the tub and daddy and daughter singing. “Oh good,” I thought and placed the bag of candy on the highest shelf of the coat closet. I could hear the water drain from the tub and a din of voices in very serious conversation. I climbed the stairs only so far as to eavesdrop.

“Daddy,” she said cheerily, “tonight let’s read the egg hunt book.”

“Again?” my husband asked.

Again. And always, again. A place for rituals and dreams, home's the real destination to any quest.