It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious.
Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat.
In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP! I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate. Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.
It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs. Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg. One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)
Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms. They were waiting for my own explosion.
Well, they did not get it. I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch. The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.
Justice and revenge would wait for another day. I was the soul of patience.
Those bastards....
Those bastards....