I can’t say I was charmed by the Easter Bunny growing up.
Or Santa Clause for that matter.
In fact I was pretty much traumatized by both. Not to say I didn’t find the idea of chocolate treats or presents under the tree delightful and deserving.
The thought of an animal possessing the power to leave a trail of chocolate and jellybeans was unnerving to say the least. And at Christmas, having a strange man enter our home while we were all asleep was something that caused me to tremble in my PJs.
Bright and early one spring Sunday morning, while my sisters and I were traipsing around the house looking for our Easter treats, somebody (my father I think) happened to call out “look, there he is! The Easter Bunny! Right on the front lawn,” but instead of looking out from the safe distance of the living room at the possible spectacle outside my window, I high tailed it to my bedroom upstairs. Up and away from any potential danger a rascally rabbit may pose. On a positive note, I do remember getting a lovely polka doted umbrella with a quaint little bag of jellybeans tied to it’s handle. A thoughtful Easter bunny even though he had been shunned.
And then there was the Christmas when the family travelled to visit my cousins…
and Santa had followed us there.
Everything was going fine, we were all bathed and in our flannel pajamas getting reading to turn in for the night. I was anticipating getting a Mrs. Beasley…when all of a sudden the doorbell rang and an ominous “HO, HO, HO” echoed from the front porch. My sisters, my cousins and I all ran screaming to the farthest bedroom in the house where I had to fight my cousin Greg for the prime spot under the bed. It was difficult to get to sleep that night with the residual terror that had surged though my little six-year-old body still lingering in my veins. And needless to say the blood curdling screams from all of us didn’t help either.
On top of it all I didn’t get my Mrs. Beasley. It was a nightmarish Christmas to say the least.
Interestingly enough the religious aspect of both of these holidays never frightened me. Sure, the birth of a baby in a manger with angels and shepherds is nothing but a beautiful story (if you pause it there and don’t move into Herod killing all the first borns) but you can’t argue that the story of the crucifixion is brutal…thank goodness it’s overwhelmed by the light of Easter otherwise this little Catholic kid would have found the Easter season troubling indeed.
What about all of you? Any holiday trauma you’d like to share?
Here is the Mrs. Beasley that never manifested that fateful Christmas Eve: