WHAT'S BUNNY GOT TO DO WITH IT?/ Beauty Reals

My grandmother Sue Craft was a devout Christian. Okay, devout is strong. She went to church most Sundays and guaranteed her litany of children and grandchildren filled two church pews on Easter Sunday. On non-church days, she cleaned houses, smoked cigarettes, played the lottery, and fried enough pork to disable an artery.

On Easter, my mother forced me to wear a starched, pastel, polyester dress replete with a stiff petticoat, white gloves, and ruffled socks. The sartorial arch nemesis of my go-to-denim shorts, Bugs Bunny T-shirt, and hush puppies. Also, my mother straightened my hair to death, burning it to crispy strips with a cast iron comb, heated to high hell.

Throughout a painfully long Baptist service, I'd break into nasty sweats and develop tiny, red rashes all over my belly. Back then, my family never considered allergic reactions. Instead, they used petroleum jelly as a cure-all for any and everything and left rashes alone.

While listening to church ladies scream hallelujah, catch the Holy Ghost and experience fainting spells, my pin-straight hair reverted to puffy, cotton-like balls framed by curly, pea-sized edges. With the tightest and most disrespectful curls appearing at the nape of my neck. After service, we'd head back to my grandmother's house to change out of our Easter clothes. God forbid Easter clothes to get dirty; they're forced to live an eternity inside a mothball-scented closet next to other never-to-be-worn-again, petroleum-stained dresses from Alexander’s.

The annual Easter egg hunt in my grandmother’s garden would commence grease-free and comfortably situated back in my cut-off shorts. For most of the afternoon, we'd scour the park like miniature truffle hunters until we uncovered every last brightly colored egg that had been boiled, dyed, and hidden by our doting mothers and aunts.  At the end of a hunt, we sat sticky-faced in the grass as crushed eggs shells decorated our limbs. But the quests weren’t complete until my grandmother gloated in her slight southern twang,

"The Easter egg bunny left those for ya'll. Eat up, babies." 

Truthfully, I saw a leprechaun under the front stairway of my elementary school. I loved the sound of my grandmother's voice but thought, “Who is this narcissistic bunny that delivers candy-filled baskets complete with a chocolate mold in his own image?” Perhaps he was someone special, like Santa Claus or that devious-looking leprechaun on Saint Patrick’s Day known for leaving chocolate-filled gold coins in random hiding spots. But I did not, could not, believe in the Easter bunny.

Before I knew what a resurrection was, this confusion with the Easter bunny consumed me. That is until I met an actual bunny. Only to discover bunnies are not gift-givers and never has one ever laid an egg. And unless you consider excremental deposits gifts, rabbits are not generous.

In the second grade, my friend had a pet rabbit. And though I said nothing, I waited for her bunny to lay an egg, supply us with chocolate, or at the very least scrounge up some jellybeans. Instead, he constantly twitched, which made me nervous; he ate everything, pooped uncontrollably, and smelled horrible. Frustrated to no end, I took it upon myself to research rabbits using my Child Craft Encyclopedia. There was no mention of laying eggs. My grandmother lied. 

And why? What did bunnies have to do with Easter? Besides accompanying a Saint or two on or close to Jesus’ resurrection, bunnies are inconsequential to the holiday. That said, I’m not one for indulging in any mythical being surrounding religious holidays. Interestingly, the tooth fairy is high on my list of 'lies' with my children.  My rationale is: the concept of the tooth fairy is fantastic. A fairy swoops in after you lose a tooth and replaces it with dollars. It doesn't get any better. Besides, I’m happy to report I’m no better than my grandmother. She was incredible.

I never mentioned my bunny awareness to my grandmother. After she died, our annual egg hunt died with her. But once a year, I’m reminded of how telling this mythical creature's story gave my grandmother such joy. So in that way, the bunny has everything to do with it.