For weeks I have been passing a sign that says this:
|Sounds like fun, huh?|
Today was the day, 10:30 a.m. in an open field about two acres of not green grass but brown grass since the snow has just melted. No daffodils, or crocus, just winter burn grass. But hey that's ok it shouldn't be hard to find coloured plastic eggs, right?
Right about the designated time we hear the chop, chop, chop of helicopter blades whirling towards the field. We all were told to stand at the edge and wait for the drop. There everyone was at the ready, empty Easter baskets in hand, kiddos in race position ready to sprint.
|Here they come!|
|Pummelling the ground I tell ya!|
The noise from the chopper and everyone on the ground running and screaming was intense, I can tell ya that much. We all ran to our cars half blind from the dirt in our eyes, and I had welts, yes welts, on me forearms and a rather large size egg on me forehead where I was a direct hit from one of those hard marshmallow things.
We have decided (all of us) that we are not going to this event next year if there be one UNLESS we have hard hats and flack jackets or as me youngest suggested suits of armor.
I think we will stick with our kinder, gentler, old fashioned Easter of kiddos hunting eggs in the morning, having Mam's Irish breakfast, then to church and home for a lovely dinner. No more modern ideas. Nope, nope, nopers as the Weasil would say. WHICH this helicopter egg drop was probably right up his alley. Like Tonya said to me as we drove home from the Easter bombing, "You sure your friend Weasil wasn't flying that thing? Seems like something he'd do."
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