Book of Jim: Egg Hunts of Yore (2010)
At my father's funeral in 2001, the first words the minister used to describe him were "Jim Hendrick was a Renaissance man." Indeed he was: he worked hard at his pediatric practice, did good deeds in the community; he was active at church, he played many a good game of golf, and bridge, too. He was a fine painter, he grew grapes, and he did most of the yard work and repairs on the big family house. But every year he somehow found time to hide Easter eggs in the most elaborate and time-consuming way, and today – Easter Sunday - I can’t help thinking about those Hunts of Yore.
I imagine that Mama did the traditional Easter egg hunts for us girls when we were young, but by the time we were adults Daddy had taken over and his hiding skills had become legendary, the stuff of stories like this one. He spent hours in preparation, covering a boiled egg, for example, with textured acrylic paint in every sort of brown so it would disappear against a tree trunk. Surely this happened before Velcro was invented (Velcro would become Daddy’s fix-it material of choice for his endless Rube Goldberg repairs), and I have no idea how he would have attached the camouflaged egg to the bark of an oak, pretty far up the trunk, if I remember correctly. I do know how he put a simple purple egg balanced inside an iris’ matching bloom by laboriously wiring and reinforcing the stem.
Over the years our boyfriends would be initiated into the family in varied and excruciating --- for them, mostly --- ways. There were party games and charades; there was trial by muscadine, where they were invited/required by Daddy to help him pick grapes while being interrogated; and there was the annual post-church after-lunch Easter egg hunt. In 1967 I brought a serious boyfriend home from our junior year of college. On Easter Sunday I wore a mini-dress of aqua knit, an A-line dress, with tiny white flowers drawn all over it. I’ll never forget it: it had a wide-open collar spreading out from a deep v-neck, a collar Daddy saw was big enough to conceal an egg. Oh, Daddy.
He got out his paints and in great secrecy imitated the cloth to perfection. I can’t imagine how, but he attached the egg under my collar where its bulging shape was partly covered by my long, straight, late-60s hair. The boyfriend started hunting. We were in the formal living room, and he was searching for the final egg to be found. You’re getting warmer, Daddy and Mother would advise; no, now you’re colder, cold, warm, warmer, warmer, hotter, HOT. Poor guy, his hands nervously hovered over my chest and hesitantly made it to my collar. YOU’RE ON FIRE! Such a good sport, he would become a husband.
But there’s one more story. Daddy hid the eggs in our garden that was defined by a stereotypical white picket fence. There were two wooden finials, like rounded urns, on the gateposts. Daddy put a plain white egg, no dye, no paint, just another white shape right on top of one of the finials. (Telling this story taught me the word finial.) I don’t know who finally discovered it, but that white egg was the best one of all.
I imagine that Mama did the traditional Easter egg hunts for us girls when we were young, but by the time we were adults Daddy had taken over and his hiding skills had become legendary, the stuff of stories like this one. He spent hours in preparation, covering a boiled egg, for example, with textured acrylic paint in every sort of brown so it would disappear against a tree trunk. Surely this happened before Velcro was invented (Velcro would become Daddy’s fix-it material of choice for his endless Rube Goldberg repairs), and I have no idea how he would have attached the camouflaged egg to the bark of an oak, pretty far up the trunk, if I remember correctly. I do know how he put a simple purple egg balanced inside an iris’ matching bloom by laboriously wiring and reinforcing the stem.
Over the years our boyfriends would be initiated into the family in varied and excruciating --- for them, mostly --- ways. There were party games and charades; there was trial by muscadine, where they were invited/required by Daddy to help him pick grapes while being interrogated; and there was the annual post-church after-lunch Easter egg hunt. In 1967 I brought a serious boyfriend home from our junior year of college. On Easter Sunday I wore a mini-dress of aqua knit, an A-line dress, with tiny white flowers drawn all over it. I’ll never forget it: it had a wide-open collar spreading out from a deep v-neck, a collar Daddy saw was big enough to conceal an egg. Oh, Daddy.
He got out his paints and in great secrecy imitated the cloth to perfection. I can’t imagine how, but he attached the egg under my collar where its bulging shape was partly covered by my long, straight, late-60s hair. The boyfriend started hunting. We were in the formal living room, and he was searching for the final egg to be found. You’re getting warmer, Daddy and Mother would advise; no, now you’re colder, cold, warm, warmer, warmer, hotter, HOT. Poor guy, his hands nervously hovered over my chest and hesitantly made it to my collar. YOU’RE ON FIRE! Such a good sport, he would become a husband.
But there’s one more story. Daddy hid the eggs in our garden that was defined by a stereotypical white picket fence. There were two wooden finials, like rounded urns, on the gateposts. Daddy put a plain white egg, no dye, no paint, just another white shape right on top of one of the finials. (Telling this story taught me the word finial.) I don’t know who finally discovered it, but that white egg was the best one of all.
At his memorial service I told some stories, including the Easter egg ones. Later, on our long drive from the Mississippi funeral back to New Mexico, Ray said he had something he thought I might like. Years before, Daddy had asked him to make a copy of a decomposing finial, and the original wooden form, thickly layered with 40 years of white paint, was in his shop at home. What serendipity: Ray recognized the star prop of a story that was new to him, and I was about to claim a precious piece of my family history. It became “Primavera / Memorial”, and it’s on display in my bedroom. It reminds me of Easter and of Daddy, and those memories make me happy.
