Finding the Golden Egg

This is so weird! I’m looking out my window at adults in their 40s who are skipping around their front yard looking for Easter eggs. The man is carrying a little pink bag and the woman is taking his picture. I am ashamed to say that I don’t even know their names. They moved in a year or so ago. They are from Texas and are ardent Republicans. They have a nice dog that doesn’t run away when they are in their front yard. That’s about all I know about them. Now the woman and the dog are posing for an Easter shot.

Easter egg hunts are a thing of my distant past. I searched for lots of Easter eggs growing up in the deep South. I even remember school class Easter parties, one at the home of J.W. Birdshaw (children in the South often went by initials or used double names). J.W. was usually one of the slowest learners in my 4th grade class, but he knew the capital of Peru was Lima (because his uncle lived there). I have vivid memories of finding Easter eggs in birdbaths and under all sorts of flowering bushes in J.W.’s big yard. I desperately wanted to find the golden egg, but it always eluded me.

I wonder if my children feel deprived because they never experienced looking for Easter eggs? Probably not, since they got to search for the Afikommen around the same time of the year. Rachel would have really gotten into dying and decorating the Easter eggs, though. That part was definitely fun.

The eggs must all have been found across the street. The man and woman and dog have disappeared into their house with their pink bag of eggs and their camera. I wonder who found the golden egg?