Effie has decorated her house (our family homestead) for Easter, which means bringing out “the bunnies.” Usually she’ll start talking about getting down her bunnies [that is, get them down from the attic; although now I want the phrase get down yer bunnies to mean something more] as soon as the last piece of holly has been boxed up in early January.
This year, she wishes to be quite clear: she was very selective in which bunnies she put out. She didn’t put them all out, mind you; only the chosen few. Some didn’t make the cut and will be forced to languish in the dark attic another year, cavorting with dusty ghosts, having been deprived their chance to briefly see the sun. The season for bunnies lasts only a month, and they have missed their moment. Well, there’s always next year, black-sheep bunnies.
But until then…
(There are more, but I thought these were the real “jewels.”)
When I was going to meet my sister this morning at 6:30 A.M. for a quick run on the boardwalk, a real-life bunny hopped across my path on Atlantic Avenue. It’s always such a novelty –– a bunny in Ocean City! Is this a good omen? Perhaps it was one of Effie’s forgotten decorations come to life; sprung from the attic; free.