I know that spring officially begins on March 20, but I always think that Easter marks the true start of the season. Even so, the way things have been going, you never know when a nor’easter is going to screw up your Easter. Usually by this time at least five Yankees are mired in atrocious slumps, the buds are on the plants, even the hydroponic ones, and three weekends worth of plans have been rained out, so I hereby proclaim that spring has sprung.
When New Yorkers say that they love the change of seasons, the one they love to see change the most is winter. Now that the snow has melted I can see that the snowplow guy has taken out every single driveway light. In the fall I had driven some reflector posts into the ground next to each light so that he would know exactly where to aim.
But all that is behind me now, and the arrival of spring has made me gay. I see a rabbit near the garage and I call out, “Hello, Mr. Bunny, if you were made of chocolate I would have eaten your ears off by now, and you wouldn’t hear a word I’m saying.” I just meant gay in the happy sense, but I still have to wonder why I love the Carpenters so much.
When I was a young lad, my sisters and brother used to get together the night before Easter for some old-fashioned egg decorating. We put the hard-boiled eggs in water that contained different colored dyes that were so weak you could wait until the Fourth of July for your Easter egg. Even our language was more colorful. The eggs were dying for so long that they were definitely dead when we got through with them. When we went to sleep, my mom would hide them around the house for us to find the next day. My mom had limited powers of recall, and sometimes a few weeks hence a malodorous smell would waft its way out from the fireplace area, and we knew we hadn’t located all of the eggs, causing a Cinco de Stinko around May 5th or so.
They used to have a big Easter egg hunt at the Mount Kisco Country Club that my parents took us to each year. I spent the whole time hiding behind a tree, in case the eggs came to hunt me down—I didn’t know if they were armed or not. I saw a bunch of golf balls and almost jumped out of my skin.
In Washington at the White House, they traditionally host an egg roll. Thousands of people show up, so they better get more than just one, unless it’s huge. And don’t forget the soy sauce. It’s a chance for the president to let his hair down and show that he is human, if either are possible.
The tradition started with First Lady Dolley Madison back in 1814. In 1878, during the presidency of Rutherford B. Hayes, the festivities moved to the White House lawns after an act of Congress forbade children to play on the grounds of the Capitol. During the Nixon administration, a staffer dressed in a rabbit suit was introduced as the Easter Bunny. He wandered around greeting children and possibly surveilling them. George W. Bush’s Easter Bunny was none other than Sean Spicer. So if you are near the White House on the Monday after Easter, don’t stand at the bottom of any hills, or you’ll be walking on eggshells the whole day.
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