Egg, redux

We had a family ritual while I was growing up that easter was the time we got new, cheap, one-season outdoor toys like hula hoops and skipping ropes. My dad would stress test them to their limits most easters. He'd also ringlead an egg hunt at my grandparents' in which we always maintained the fiction that we had "not found" eggs the previous year -- they were, of course, always resquirrelled after they'd been rooted out. I've blogged about this before.

Today, coincidentally, my cousin brought me over a little bag of things that my aunt had retrieved from my grandmother's house after she died. Including one of the petrified eggs planted at least two decades ago by my dad.

I miss you, dad.

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(The package also included a hilarious thank you note that I wrote to my grandparents when I was about 8 -- "Thank you for the card and the money. It was the most money's worth of a dollar bill that I got. All the rest were one dollar bills." And to be clear, I signed my full name).