Death of the Rabbit

The long life and sad demise of the Easter bunny

White Rabbit Standing by Jan Mankes, 1910

I’m not a believer. I’ve had a long and complicated relationship with faith, one that sees me flirting and fleeing by turns. Faith is a thing I’ve tried and failed to write about, but it’s coming. My big fat faith essay will be born, come hell or high water. This is not that.

Without church and all that faith business, we were left to indulge our children in time-worn American holiday rituals. For Easter, we took a sort-of-pagan, sort-of-Madison Avenue approach and embraced it whole hog (often with the hog on the table).

Four kids and decades worth of baskets, dyed eggs, jelly beans and pastel sweets, we started the festivities each year with a hunt, whipping everyone into a froth of spun sugar madness. The Bubbie Hunt, a holdover from my husband’s childhood when someone couldn’t say “bunny,” and “bubbie” was born.

The Bubbie Hunt was the first thing the kids would do upon rising on Easter Sunday. They had to locate the initial clue, which was fiendishly hidden (this was never a hunt for amateurs and the oldest and/or smartest was always the strongest hunter — it’s Darwinian around here). The clues led them around, sometimes ranging over acres and acres, depending on the weather and how much we (the parents) wanted to endure. All over our big, old house, often into the creepiest, dustiest, most forgotten corners. They had to work for the payoff and there was no small measure of whining and flagging. At the end of the rainbow, they would find their baskets and the next phase would begin. The phase where my children rapidly stuffed chocolate and chews and all manner of inappropriate morning “food” into their heads and I yelled about getting some real food first. Such fun.

This was a tradition with legs. We did it every year and the kids came to expect it. As they got older, some of them continued to demand it. My daughter (the baby), deep into her teens, was still putting the pressure on. “We’re going to have baskets, right? And the hunt — we have to do the hunt. I want (insert name of current boyfriend) to do the hunt with us!” We were weary and wondering crankily for a bit when we’d be off the hook.

It was a chore. The husband and I would wake on Easter Sunday and immediately start cursing and complaining. “Shit! It’s late — baskets! Clues!” We’d leap up, as on all those stress-filled Christmas mornings, and start making magic for our little diabetics-in-training. I would arrange the appalling plastic grass in the baskets, portion out all the sugar and trinkets, and press Steven for the landing spot. “Just tell me where the hunt ends.” I’d drop the baskets in the creepy back stairs or the garage or somewhere and he’d write all the clues.

It was tricky. The clues were clever and numbered — each had to be hidden in the correct spot in order for the hunt to make sense. If the Bubbie hadn’t had his coffee yet, things could go south quickly. He somehow managed, however, to build successful hunts, year after year. It was impressive. The kids had to use their minds and their bodies and they had to work together. He would send them traipsing into every room, leafing through books, searching the pantry, and racing through the yard. Once, a clue was on the dog. It’s amazing what you can make them do when candy is at the other end.

I think it’s over, though. I think the Bubbie has died. My kids are old, my daughter (the baby, keeper of the flame) is in a distant city brunching with other young adults. What the hell happened?

We woke up this morning, kind of late, and mused first about the deliciousness of no expectation. Then, of course, the rush of minor sadness. I don’t want to do all that work, but remember?

The Bubbie is dead. Long live the Bubbie.

Happy Easter!
Lisa 🐣