Easter Eggs

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I was a very tiny child, so young, I don’t even remember the events of this story happening to me. I only know what happened because my parents repeated the story throughout my childhood until it became part of our family folklore.

bright, colorful, colourfulIt was Easter. My sibling either hadn’t been born or was too little to play with the gang of cousins, which means I couldn’t have been more than four. We were at the home of my godmother, my mother’s eldest sister. My godmother had six children, and her home was one of my favorite places in my small world. The house was full of kids and excitement. There was always someone around to play with or at least give me some attention. I particularly enjoyed being with my girl cousins who are a year and a half and three years older than I am. The three of us rocked girl power before the media gave the phenomenon a name.

My dad didn’t much like for me to visit at my godmother’s house. I suppose being there gave me what he considered a bad attitude. My cousins were living a rather free-range childhood; they have no supervision, my dad once said. I suppose after being unsupervised with my cousins, I desired less supervision when I went home, but my parents weren’t standing for that. I was an over-supervised child, and my parents had no intention of loosening their hold.

So it was Easter. The kids were going in and out of the house to hide Easter eggs in the large yard. My mom had added the brightly colored eggs she and I had dyed together to the pile of brightly colored eggs her sister had dyed with my cousins. There were a lot of eggs to hide and seek.

Long after the other kids had grown bored with Easter eggs and moved on to other activities, my cousin Sherry and I were still at it. Sherry was the cousin closest to me in age, just a year and a few months my senior, so she was often stuck playing with me. I think I was probably a little too young to hide eggs, so that task fell on Sherry. After she hid all the eggs, we went outside to together so I could find them. Sherry had to stay with me to make sure I didn’t hurt myself and to provide clues on where to find the eggs she had hidden a little too well.

The adults must have noticed the lapse of time between my going out to find the eggs and coming inside to announce they had all been found was growing increasingly shorter. When my mom peeked into my Easter basket, she noticed the supply of eggs had also diminished.

Sherry, go outside and help Blaize find the rest of the eggs, my cousin was encouraged.

I suppose the adults wanted to be alone so they could gossip about other family members and the state of the world outside the earshot of children who might repeat what had been said.

Sherry and I went outside, but it wasn’t long before we were inside again with no additional eggs in the basket. In fact, we now seemed to possess fewer eggs than we’d had the last time we’d come inside.

Sherry, why didn’t y’all find all the eggs? one of the adults complained.

We did find them all, Sherry burst our miserably. Blaize ate most of the eggs she found!

Mystery solved. I was a tiny girl who loved hard boiled eggs, and I’d eaten most of our bounty. My cousin either couldn’t stop me or (more likely) hadn’t even bothered to try. Thankfully, neither salmonella nor high cholesterol took me out on that holiest of days.

Photo courtesy of https://www.pexels.com/photo/bright-colorful-colourful-decorate-356339/.

About Blaize Sun

My name is Blaize Sun. Maybe that's the name my family gave me; maybe it's not. In any case, that's the name I'm using here and now. I've been a rubber tramp for nearly a decade.I like to see places I've never seen before, and I like to visit the places I love again and again. For most of my years on the road, my primary residence was my van. For almost half of the time I was a van dweller, I was going it alone. Now my (male) partner and I (a woman) have a travel trailer we can pull with our truck. We have a little piece of property, and when we're not traveling, we park our little camper there. I was a work camper in a remote National Forest recreation area on a mountain for four seasons. I was a camp host and parking lot attendant for two seasons and wrote a book about my experiences called Confessions of a Work Camper: Tales from the Woods. During the last two seasons as a work camper on that mountain, I was a clerk in a campground store. I'm also a house and pet sitter, and I pick up odd jobs when I can. I'm primarily a writer, but I also create beautiful little collages; hand make hemp jewelry and warm, colorful winter hats; and use my creative and artistic skills to decorate my life and brighten the lives of others. My goal (for my writing and my life) is to be real. I don't like fake, and I don't want to share fake. I want to share my authentic thoughts and feelings. I want to give others space and permission to share their authentic selves. Sometimes I think the best way to support others is to leave them alone and allow them to be. I am more than just a rubber tramp artist. I'm fat. I'm funny. I'm flawed. I try to be kind. I'm often grouchy. I am awed by the stars in the dark desert night. I hope my writing moves people. If my writing makes someone laugh or cry or feel angry or happy or troubled or comforted, I have done my job. If my writing makes someone think and question and try a little harder, I've done my job. If my writing opens a door for someone, changes a life, I have done my job well. I hope you enjoy my blog posts, my word and pictures, the work I've done to express myself in a way others will understand. I hope you appreciate the time and energy I put into each post. I hope you will click the like button each time you like what you have read. I hope you will share posts with the people in your life. I hope you'll leave a comment and share your authentic self with me and this blog's other readers. Thank you for reading.  A writer without readers is very sad indeed.

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