Santa is Dead - Long Live the Easter Bunny

My Grandfather gazed at me intently with his steely-blue eyes. His tone was rather hushed and quite serious. I knew he had something very important to tell me. We were sitting at his dining room table and it was just after lunchtime on a Saturday afternoon. The backyard was nice and shady with a cool California breeze, and I could hear the soft melody of the bamboo wind chimes through the old screen door.

"Wen," he said. "I know that whole Santa stuff....well," he hesitated, "was a real disappointment when you found out. Yep, that old fat guy in the red suit with the beard is just a made up story and I'm real sorry 'bout that. I know it was kind of a shock."

He leaned in closer. "But I've got to tell ya, the Easter Bunny, now that's another story completely."

He put his strong, workman's hands on either side of my tiny shoulders, and looked me square in the eye, as if he were about to disclose the biggest secret on the face of the earth. My Grandfather was a very serious man, definitely not a man to be trifled with. He didn't mess around. So when his voice got serious and all, you listened and you listened good.

"So the Easter Bunny, well, he is as real as you and me. I've seen him. I've met him. And he is quite a fella. Yes, in fact, we've sat here at this very table!"

I looked at my Grandfather rather wide-eyed. I was six years old and feeling terribly confused. I mean, they had lied to me about this whole Santa deal and now my Grandfather was talking about the Easter Bunny being real, and it just really confounded my first-grade brain. You see, I come from a family of, shall we say, "tellers of tall tales." It's quite an art form in my clan, passed down through the generations, so one never knows what to believe half the time, or probably most of the time. Oh, the "elders" were very good at telling whoppers. All of them. I'm still not sure to this day, as a grown up, how many things in my fragile youth were elaborate fabrications, and how much was real. It was just "that way" in our family. They were grand masters of "sport-fibbing" if you will.

But I digress. My Grandfather continued, "That Bun is a rather large fellow. He hops here and there, there and here. He carries a large basket full of eggs, which he leaves for you girls (I have a Sister, although she was not privy to this Easter Bunny disclosure, only me, which made me feel quite special).

"And every year, after he's hidden all of the eggs for you two, he comes into the house, and we sit down together, have some milk and chat a spell. Honestly Wen, I know this sounds crazy, especially with the whole Santa thing blowing up. But I can honestly tell you, the Easter Bunny is real! And that's the truth!"

I think my jaw must have absolutely dropped at that point. My Grandfather had mostly convinced me. I mean I wanted, no I needed to have something to believe in now. Frankly, I think I was awfully relieved to hear that there was something to look forward to this holiday, especially since my family had successfully killed off Santa only a few months before. I still don't remember who delivered the Christmas-killing, soul-crushing news on that one. But alas, with my Grandfather's revelation, there was redemption. And isn't that what Easter is all about? A resurrection of Faith and Hope? Yes indeed. My Grandfather always had a way of making everything better.

I whispered, "Do you think you could put in a good word for me with him this year, the Easter Bunny, you know, because you and he are pals and all, Grandpa?"

"Why sure I can. But this will be our little secret. Just between you and me. Don't go around telling everyone I told you he's real now. He's very shy. We don't want word to get out."

"I won't tell anyone Grandpa," I said. "Cross my heart."

And that night, I colored Easter eggs with my Sister and Grandparents. We used boiling hot water (not the sissy cold water stuff they use today) and dye and vinegar, and wax crayons to write our names and make curly-cues on the eggs. The dyes were beautiful and vivid, the kind I'm sure they've since discovered give you deadly cancer; robin's egg blue, violet, shocking pink, orange, green and bright yellow. My Grandmother finished off the eggs with a light coat of butter to make the eggs look extra glossy. I don't know where that tradition came from, but they sure looked pretty lying there in the plastic fake green Easter grass in our baskets.

My Grandmother made a giant angel food cake in the oven that night. When it came out she whipped up the fluffiest white meringue frosting I'd ever seen, slathered it on the cake, and then put it back under the broiler so that the tips just browned, ever so slightly. Then she added a light dusting of coconut and a final sprinkling of jellybeans. My Grandmother's angel food cakes were truly a work of art, but we only saw them at Easter time.

Easter in our household, you see, was bigger than Christmas. Since Easter was Jesus' "Big Day," my Grandmother said this was the most special holiday of the year.

I guess when all was said and done, I didn't mind that Santa was just a bittersweet memory now. I had an Easter basket full of shiny eggs, a mouthful of sticky jellybeans and the sweet, sweet secret that the Easter Bunny (my Grandfather's personal friend and pal) would be hopping into our backyard by morning. I felt sorry for all the naysayers. Yes, Santa might be dead, but the Easter Bunny was clearly alive and well and all was right with the world.