Yesterday I was remembering an Easter Sunday from my childhood. Before I tell you what happened, I need to give you a bit of context. Each Easter we were given three Easter baskets (we knew our individual baskets based on the color ribbon tied on the top). Before we were allowed out of our bedrooms in the morning, my parents (a.k.a. the Easter Bunny) would hide our baskets and we would be set free to go and find our baskets before breakfast. There was also always a “family” basket that sat on the center of the kitchen table.
Since we grew up in Indiana, it was generally cold outside, and depending on how early or late in the year Easter fell, we might even have snow. Due to the weather, our basket hunt was always somewhere in our house.
This specific year I remember finding my last basket next to a sliding glass door behind a heavy drape. Once I found it, I looked down and noticed it looked fairly black. Bending down to pick it up, I screamed. Not out of fear for what I saw, but because I knew there was no way I would be allowed to eat the candy inside my basket. My basket was covered completely with ants. Gross right? In the ten minutes it took for my parents to hide the baskets and for us to find them, the ants had completely ransacked and attacked my Easter candy.
I was mortified. To assuage me, my parents let me know that for that Easter I would get to share the “family” basket with them. I cannot remember if that was a treat for me, or not. All I can remember is that ants took over my basket.