I recently read a news article that suggested another approach to the traditional Easter egg hunt that you have with your children. The article recommended that each child have a particular color of Easter egg, and that color would be the only egg the child could collect during the hunt. The new approach would ensure that each child collected the same amount of eggs, and no feelings would be hurt at the end of the hunt.
That article would not have gained much attention in my generation of youth. The annual Easter eggs hunts at my school, daycare and even in own backyard were a “only the strong will survive” type of hunt. And to be honest, I loved the competition, even if it did come with a few hurt feelings and maybe even a few bruises along the way.
The most infamous of those eggs hunts happened when I was in second grade at McLeod Elementary School in Jackson. A few of the janitors at school would hide the eggs for each class in different locations on the playground. Three grown men were transformed into children again as they devised some of the most crafty ways to hide an Easter egg. One janitor tried to hide an egg in the depths of a sewer opening, but the principal quickly shut that down.
My classmates and I almost resembled an Army troop as we prepared for the hunt inside our classroom. One kid stood guard at the window, trying to catch a peak at some of the places the eggs were hidden. Alliances were made as many groups formed a pact to divide the eggs equally, if they worked together to find the most. Battle plans were developed as many of us mapped out what areas of the playground we would hit first.
And then there was the release.
Our teacher held her body firm against the door of the school’s side entrance as my class pushed ahead to secure a spot in the front of the group. And when she flung open the door, we resembled a battle scene from Braveheart. Screaming at the top of our lungs and thrashing our plastic baskets around us, we embarked to conquer the Egg Hunt of 1990.
I began snatching up whatever resembled a pastel color. Some kid even found a lost retainer under the swing set, mistaking its pink hue for an egg. I saw friends turn into enemies, and one kid even pushed his best friend down the slide to grab an egg at the top. His cries of anguish sliding down the scalding hot metal slide could be heard in three counties.
Those alliances made in the classroom were quickly broken and friendly lines were shattered with moments of betrayal. I personally wrestled with another boy to grab the Golden Egg that was sure to have a dollar inside. I picked myself off the ground, spitting grass out of my mouth but with a Golden Egg in my possession. Sad to report that it did not have a dollar inside but rather a melted piece of chocolate.
Some kids were so excited about their collection of eggs, they tipped their baskets over on accident when they would bend down to pick another one up. The waterfall of eggs hitting the ground were met with vulture-like kids, scooping up the eggs before dashing off to find another poor victim.
We developed super human strengths as we climbed up trees and rolled down hills for just one egg. Pain was not felt as we dived into ant beds to grab an egg that rolled into the ant colony.
And as we kids battled it out in the Egg Hunt of 1990, where were the adults? They stood at the side entrance of the school building, laughing and pointing at the chaos they were witnessing. There was no pity when it came to the egg hunt, and everyone was fair game.
And when every egg was collected and the green lawn lacked any pastel hue, my classmates and I stood and looked at each other like two forces who ceased fire. We were bleeding at our knees. We had ant bites all over hands. We had grass and limbs dangling from our hair. But we had plastic eggs. And victory was ours.
When we made our way back to the classroom, we were allowed by our teachers to dive into our splendors. Ripping open the plastic eggs, we found Sweet Tarts, Hershey Kisses, miniature Crunch bars. Some eggs even held heart candy from Valentine’s Day, probably left over from our February party.
For those of us that violated the alliances, we began to make our apologies. And as the bell sounded for us to head to our buses, we once again were friends with stomachs full of candy and heads filled with pride.
There were a few kids who did not find as many eggs as others. But they seemed fine as they held tight to what they did find. They fought tooth and nail for those few eggs, and they knew it.
And as we limped to our buses with scraped knees and still a few strands of grass in our hair, we were happy. We had a sugar high that lasted for hours and a sense of pride that carried over for days. We were the kids of the Egg Hunt of 1990. May we never forget.
