A shy little boy came up to me at the desk where I work and whispered something so softly that I couldn’t make out a single word. I bent over to put my ear near his mouth and said, “Could you say that again, a little louder please?” And he whispered a request that was a few puffs of air and some sounds that might have been consonants.

With my head bent over to listen, I could see two tiny cowboy boots peeking out from under his jeans. They had pointy toes and contrasting stitching, and they looked real snazzy, so I took a shot in the dark: “I like your boots. Do you like books about cowboys?”

“Heavens yes!” said his grandmother who was sitting on a couch nearby. “Cowboys and tractors.”

“Well let’s take a look,” I said. “I bet we can find some cowboy books.”

So my colleague and I went to lookin’ and we rustled up some good stories, and the little boy took them to the couch with his grandmother while mama and the baby were busy.

Soon it was the end of my shift. I started to gather my things and was almost finished when a little boy appeared at my side.

“Tractor,” he said. Not loud. But loud enough.

“Sure, I think we can find some tractor books.”

“Did he ask you that himself?” said the grandmother.

“Yes he did.”

So my colleague and I went to lookin’ and we pulled some tractor books off the shelves, and for a few minutes, in a small corner of the world, life was just about perfect.

After a considerable time looking around a local boutique, my daughter and I picked out a really wonderful, handcrafted kaleidoscope as a wedding present for our soon-to-be married California friends.  They both like art objects, live in a tiny apartment, and have absolutely no need for house stuff.  This seemed like the perfect gift—beautiful, fun, and able to travel well in my husband’s carry-on luggage.

Just one problem:  as I finished wrapping it in silver-and-white wedding paper, I realized that airport security would x-ray it and likely think that the cylindrical steel casing was a pipe bomb.  They would at least be puzzled and want to see the object in question.  So much for my wrapping job!  But then I realized that the colored bits were suspended in liquid gel.  No way to get it on the airplane.  It was going to have to be unwrapped, in checked baggage, and it still might cause trouble…

so I shipped it out to the West Coast overnight.  Probably went on a plane.  What a world.

It was a red pickup truck–a guy and a girl in the cab and another guy sitting in the bed.  Not an unusual sight around here—especially out in the county where I was driving–but the guy in the back was looking down and concentrating on something.  My inner librarian looked over hopefully, “Could he be reading?”  Not exactly.  Turns out he was working on his laptop.   

Driving in to work the other day, I found myself traveling behind a 15 ft. fiberglass cow.   It was a red and white Turkey Hill cow with its very own tub of ice cream—tho’ the ice cream was a bit difficult to see from my vantage point.   Now, this is not an everyday occurrence for me, but thinking back, I can’t decide what was more curious:  a cow in the historic district, the reactions of the people as it passed, or me driving down the road, holding up my cell phone to get a picture. 

There’s a resale shop in town that sells “gently-used name brand fashions” like Abercrombie and Fitch, Hollister and American Eagle.  The shop’s name is Plato’s Closet-which struck me as an odd name for a used clothing store.  The closet part I could understand, but who was Plato?  The owner?  The owner’s dog?  I mean, I’d heard of THE Plato-but what did he have to do with clothing?  I pondered, but to no avail. 

It was only when we actually bought something there that all became clear.  Our purchase was placed in a plastic bag that said “Plato’s Closet.  I wear.  Therefore, I am.”  “Eureka!”  I shouted.  (Well, not really.)  It is THE Plato!  But instead of being Plato’s Cave (where captives see shadows of the real world flickering on the wall in the firelight) it had become Plato’s Closet where teens can buy upscale items in their second life; shadows of the real world of prep fashion.  The clue that tipped me off, of course, was “I wear.  Therefore, I am.” –even if that’s a morphication of Descartes and has nothing to do with Plato–unless of course, I want to prove that I’m as real as my clothes used to be, or something like that. 

All in all, pretty clever in a weird, kinda twisted way.   And though it may never get a second thought from 90 percent of the teens shopping there, it still made me laugh.   

Let’s review what we know about the Easter Bunny:

The Easter Bunny, a.k.a. Peter Cottontail, is a magical rabbit who brings candy and colored eggs to children on Easter.  Sometimes he likes to hide the eggs or a basket of treats and other times he simply leaves a filled basket for the children to find when they wake up.

In my experience, there are two primary texts which explain the Easter Bunny story:

Here comes Peter Cottontail hoppin’ down the Bunny Trail.

Hippity, hoppity, Easter’s on its way!

And “Meeting the Easter Bunny” by Rowena Bennett.

(My sister had to memorize this poem for an elementary school play.  She walked around the house reciting it for several days in preparation, so, of course, we all know it quite well.)

On Easter morn at early dawn before the cocks were crowing,
I met a bob-tail bunnykin and asked where he was going,
“Tis in the house and out the house a-tipsy, tipsy toeing,
Tis round the house and ’bout the house a-lightly I am going.”
“But what is that of every hue you carry in your basket?”
“Tis eggs of gold and eggs of blue;”
I wonder that you ask it.
“Tis chocolate eggs and bonbon eggs
And eggs of red and gray,
For every child in every house on bonny Easter Day.”
He perked his ears
And winked his eye
And twitched his little nose;
He shook his tail–
What tail he had–
And stood up on his toes.
“I must be gone before the sun;
The East is growing gray;
“Tis almost time for bells to chime.”
So he hippety-hopped away.

It’s a pretty simple story.  You can read an expanded variation in Pay COD for isotretinoin without prescription by Dubose Heyward, but basically, you’ve got the rabbit, the basket, and the treats.  (I understand that some Europeans believe the Easter Bunny actually lays the eggs, but most Americans will remind you that a rabbit is a mammal and such notions are a perversion of Nature.)

So what’s with the New Easter that’s being shaped in my local retail store?

I ran smack into New Easter last week when I went to the Super Target.   Alongside the traditional wicker Easter baskets was the most amazing collection of candy containers I’ve ever seen.

There were plush “baskets” shaped like Hello Kitty heads, My Little Pony, Shrek’s head, Elmo with bunny ears, and even a Spiderman head.  (Imagine the Easter Bunny hoppin’ down the bunny trail with a Spiderman head full of candy!)

There were plush triceratops, plush Tonka trucks, footballs, soccer balls, monkeys, dogs, and ducks-all with a handle and a hollow space for candy.  There were even metal containers that looked like recycled wastebaskets with fuzzy bunny stickers and a handle stuck on.

“Halloween for Spring,” said my husband—and you know, I believe I did see some of these items sold as trick-or-treat bags a couple of months ago.  And while it may make a certain theological sense to link Easter and All Hallows’ Eve/All Saints Day, I don’t think that’s what the Merchandisers of the World had in mind.  They’re just re-tooling and re-packaging what worked in the fall.

Now I am generally tolerant of the, uhhh, creative impulses that accompany American Capitalism.  But dude, don’t mess with the Rabbit.

Here’s an example of Messing with the Myth:  Dove is selling a Fairy Bunny this year—a hollow chocolate rabbit that has butterfly wings and a little rhyme on the box, “Not far from Whispering Willows, just north of Rainbow Bay, is a valley few grown-ups know of where the magical Fairy Bunnies play….”

People, the Easter Bunny is already magical and he don’t need no stinkin’ butterfly wings.  The texts clearly refer to his “hippity-hopping.”  Even the isotretinoin buy online hops.  A more authentic Easter product, in my opinion.

And what is Easter without eggs?  Once upon a time you dyed your own with food coloring and vinegar (I will never forget the smell of egg shells in hot vinegar water.)  Then there were isotretinoin 20 mg without prescription.  Then plastic eggs in bright colors.  This season there are metallic sparkle eggs and camo eggs (in green or pink camo), and chick, bunny and frog “eggs” (why do they call them “frog eggs?”  These are plastic frogs not frog eggs.)  You can fill your basket with bug eggs and velvet eggs, with Hello Kitty, Elmo, and Spiderman head eggs.  I hate to be a grump, but these are not eggs.  At least Elmo and the Superman shields are appropriately labeled as “Treat Containers.”

One aisle over, next to the bunny and chick costumes in Adult and child sizes (more Halloween) were the pre-packaged Easter Egg Hunts.  You can buy eggs pre-filled with Hershey’s products, or Wonka candies, or Twizzlers and Jolly Ranchers.  There’s a Disney/Pixar kit, a Troll egg hunt (only 4 eggs in this one; better buy two kits), Nick Jr., Sesame Street, Barbie, and the cool-looking “EGGZOTICS” with Hotwheel cars inside.  There are also non-character kits and games:  the All Star Sports Egg Hunt, Racing Eggs, Flower Power Eggs, Pin the Tail on the Bunny Egg Game, the Egg Scramble Game with musical timer (Don’t get caught without the egg!), and my personal favorite-the Nighttime Egg Hunt.  These eggs are hard-to-find black, dark blue, and dark purple with a special reflective stripe around the middle–flashlights and batteries included.  (Just wake up the children after Easter Vigil and you’re ready to go!)

Now I understand the impulse to buy the pre-packaged Easter.  We’ve all gotten used to individual servings from Halloween and packing lunchboxes, and who has time for vinegar and food coloring?   My people don’t even like hard-boiled eggs.

But Easter–even the purely secular Easter-Bunny Easter–is anchored in a story.  If you discard the story then the magic disappears, and all that’s left is brightly-colored packaging surrounding empty calories and cheap plastic trinkets.  Before you know it, there are only five movie plots in Hollywood, only ten different toys on the shelves, and only one holiday repeated periodically throughout the year.

Let’s keep the Bunny.  And the Basket.  And the Eggs.

One of the (very few) pleasures of moving is the chance to unpack and rearrange all the things in my curio and china cabinets.  The collection started with a shadow box I kept as a child and has moved with me ever since.  Now it is a cabinet of wonders, filled with items that seem to me beautiful or interesting or the product of human wit.  There are china dogs, dried flowers, a cloisonne teapot, a metal raven from the Tower of London, a doll-sized lunchbox (with thermos and banana), and a tiny pair of wooden shoes.  There is a ceramic giraffe my mother made in art class and a wind-up tin airplane from around WWI that belonged to my husband’s uncle.  There are gifts and remembrances–and all of them were simply known as “Mommy’s precious things” when my children were small.  

In one corner of the china cupboard is a painted mug given to my mother and to me by a dear family friend sometime in the 1980s.  Tucked inside the mug are two index cards held together by a paperclip with a red heart fixed to the top.  The ink is red and the handwriting is full of the loops and curls you often see in older women’s penmenship.  Here is the message from Mrs. Lynn (with a few of my mother’s annotations):

This mug was painted by Mary Brown Anderson of Rockbridge Baths, Va.  The mug is approximately 90 years old.   I have a picture she painted of the Natural Bridge.  In the corner she initialed (sp?) M.B.A. 1908.  So, I think a conservative estimate of the age of the mug would be 84 years.  [? –notes my mother]  I have no way of knowing whether [or not–adds mom] she did the mug prior to the Bridge paintings–She devoted her life to her parents, friends, Bethesda Presbyterian Church.  Altho’ she had tuberculosis she refused to go to a sanitorium; she outlived her parents.  She did a lot of art work, including painting china scenes.  The Andersons were beloved by their neighbors there in Rockbridge.  [Rockbridge County in which Lexington is located.] 

The first time I ever saw a willow tree was one afternoon I had ridden with an aunt in a buggy drawn by a favorite [“]Lucy[“] who stepped along in a lively manner as we went to see Mary Brown!!–While my aunt chatted with Mr. & Mrs. Anderson, Mary Brown and I walked down by the creek.  There by the water was my first willow!!     Evelyn Lynn

Mary Brown is now long gone, and Mrs. Lynn has passed on too.  But in my cabinet, inside a painted mug, held by a paperclip and a heart, is a memory of the two of them walking together. 

I am a recovering stuff accumulator. This is different from a collector. I do that too; but a collection has a theme and an organization while an accumulation does not.

One of the problems with being an accumulator is that people start to give you things they want to get rid of. “Oh, she collects stuff like that. See if she can use it.” These people are akin to those who offer you a creampuff when you’re on a diet. Or a cigarette when you’re trying to quit. You’ve got to learn to Just Say No. Don’t try to help them, they’re not helping you.

At the same time you’re being tempted with more things, other folks start to look to you as the person who has stuff when they need it. You become like the person folks go to with their trivia questions, but instead of asking “Do you know who played bass on ‘Midnight Train to Georgia?'” they wonder if you have something they could use to build a diorama of the Acropolis because it’s due tomorrow. Or “Do you know where to find the blue electrical tape we used to have? Not the black, the blue.” Hard to give up that good feeling you get when you actually have blue electrical tape and enough raw materials to build all of ancient Athens overnight, but it’s got to be done.

A lot of people see all this stuff as meaningless clutter. The real problem is one of too much meaning. I remember a conversation I once had with a friend where we talked about collecting and clutter. I picked up my just-emptied coffee cup and said, “You see this? This is a Styrofoam cup. But if I want, it becomes the cup that reminds me of this breakfast, and the time we shared on this committee. Now this cup has meaning, and it’s not just a cup anymore. And suddenly it’s tough to throw it away.”

It’s hard to let go of stuff. Hard to let go of your image of the newer, smarter, improved you that you could be if you’d only finish reading all those magazines on the night stand. Hard to give up all the sentiment and the potential attached to things. Hard to believe that throwing something away is not a condemnation. Hard to constantly be deciding, keep it? Or let it go?

Saw an article in the paper about how the scent of polecats signals the coming of spring.  I showed it to my children, and then I had to explain exactly what a polecat was.  “You mean that’s a real word?!  I thought it was just an expression.”   Good heavens, children.  Ain’t yer momma never taught you nothin’?

Well, being a modern mother, I looked it up on purchase isotretinoin online, and you know, there are more different kinds of polecats in this world than you’d think.  There’s critters, and rock bands, and aircraft–even barbershop quartets have polecats.  But I don’t know if their scent really signals the advent of spring.

Just in case you run into a polecat, here’s a recipe to keep on hand. 

Skunk Deodorizer

Mix together:

1 Quart 3% Hydrogen Peroxide

¼ cup Baking Soda

1 teaspoon Liquid Soap

Wet the animal down and then rub the soapy mixture on the fur (mixture will bubble); really work it in.  Do not get the mixture in or near the animal’s eyes, nose, ears, or mouth.  Leave solution on for three to four minutes and rinse thoroughly.

WARNING:  DO NOT STORE LEFTOVER SOLUTION – this chemical combination can be dangerous when stored.

What’s the trick?  When mixed together, these ingredients form an alkaline peroxide which chemically changes the skunk essence into sulfonic acid, an odorless chemical.  The soap breaks down the oily skunk essence, making it more susceptible to other chemicals.