Blabberings

Life holds delicious mysteries for mankind to dissect and debate. Often, we prefer stories for which the answers seem to be lost to history. Who built Stonehenge and why? Do Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster exist? Was Atlantis real? What happened to Jimmy Hoffa? Did Wilson eat the poop?

Wait . . . I better back up.

The Annual Lake Friends Spring Break Easter Egg Extravaganza didn’t begin as tradition. Most traditions don’t set out to be traditions. During spring break more than a decade ago, it was a just pretty day at Lake Eufaula, and it was too cold to swim. The three mommies had nine children under 10 years old. One of the mommies said, “I have some plastic eggs in the cabin. Why don’t we hide them?”

Throughout the years, we have accumulated, broken, and lost dozens of eggs. Currently, about 200 mostly mismatched eggs reside in an old, large, pink plastic bag from Leon’s women’s dress shop at Porter Square Mall. In black ink that matches the handles, words on it boast, “If it’s from Leon’s, it has quality.”

While hiding the eggs each spring, a mommy finds an arrow that was lost the previous summer during target practice. While gathering the arrows every summer, a kid finds an Easter egg that was overlooked the previous spring. Scout the Labradoodle must be locked up while the eggs are out, because he likes to hunt them, too.

We have entertained a guest or two almost every year. Being our guest is an advantage, much as being an extra on Star Trek was a disadvantage. Odds were high that the extra on the Star Trek episode would be killed. Odds were pretty good that the guest at our Easter egg hunt would find the golden egg. Odds were astronomical that the only two stinky boys in our group would throw temper tantrums when the guest found the golden egg.

I’m digressing.

One by one (with the exception of the twins), the children turned into teenagers. Two spring breaks ago, to make the hunt less childish, we held it at nighttime. We don’t have much outside lighting at our cabin, so the kids needed flashlights. Even the stinky boys thought it was fun, whether they would admit it or not, and were finally too old to throw temper tantrums over the golden egg–at least out loud.

One of the stinky boys, Wilson, is a middle child, sandwiched in birth order between girls. One or both of his sisters hates him at all times. For a reason no one remembers, it was the younger sister, SB, who hated him on this particular day. She wanted to play a trick on him. She thought it would be funny to put rabbit pellets (from Emma’s furry friend, Caspian T. Bunny) into an egg and drop it in his bag. (We always use high-quality Walmart bags as “baskets.”) She enlisted the assistance of her parents, who were mischievous enough to help her do it. Her dad was actually the one who deposited the poop-filled egg in Wilson’s “basket.”

After the hunt, everyone gathered at the picnic table to count eggs and to see what treasures they had picked up. When Wilson opened the egg with the poop in it, he wondered out loud what was in it and tossed it into his mouth. The horrified and thrilled crowd silently gasped and held back giggles as he chewed.

“How did it taste?” Wilson’s dad asked.

“Grassy,” Wilson told us.

SB tore into the house. The screen door slammed behind her.

Her mama went to check on her. She was terrified. Wilson was going to kill her this time for sure. He had eaten bunny poop, and everyone had watched him. He was going to be furious and humiliated. Her well-laid plans were much more fun to plot than to carry out. What had she been thinking?! What torture would she have to endure for this?! What paybacks was she going to reap?!

The Easter egg hunt was over. SB cried all the way back to their cabin.

This took place on the second Friday of spring break. The next day, the three families packed up, cleaned up, and went home.

On Sunday morning, Emma found SB at church to see if she was okay, to see what Wilson knew, to see what damage he had done to his little sister.

SB told Emma that Wilson was not angry. She said her parents told him of the plan in advance. She said they exchanged the poop with Reese’s Puffs. She said he knew he was eating cereal, not feces. She said he played along.

Emma recounted to me what SB said. Emma remembered how upset SB had been. Emma said, “I saw it. It was poop, and he ate it. They all made up a story to make SB feel better and to keep Wilson from being embarrassed.”

Did Wilson eat the poop? Emma says he did. SB says he didn’t. Tight-lipped Wilson won’t tell.

I can picture them now in a future old folks’ home, reminiscing and arguing about the details. Certainly by then, the truth will have been long forgotten.

Perhaps, the answers to mysteries do not want to be uncovered. Once the truth is known, the curious move on to other topics. No one talks about who shot JR anymore. We want Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson to solve another murder. We want Indiana Jones to unearth another artifact. We want the Pink Panther to be stolen yet again. We want Inspector Clouseau to track down the thief one more time.

Did Wilson eat the poop? I hope I never find out.