31 March 2018
902
R. Linda:
For weeks I have been passing a sign that says this:
So this got my attention because I'd never heard of such a thing. I could see it in me mind's eye, coloured Easter eggs falling to the green earth and scattering in a hundred different directions, wee ones sprinting across the lawn to gather them up. Yup, pretty modern, I thought, and well, why not sign the kiddos up and start a new and thoroughly modern Easter tradition?
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 had 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?
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.
Only that's not what happened; the chopper was a little too low, or they didn't consider that there was no vibrant grass, just dead stuff filled with dirt that let fly like small grains of sand. My eyes were the first to feel the sting, and because it was in the high 50s today, I was wearing a t-shirt and my arms and what exposed skin I was sporting took the second sting of flying debris. The kiddos were screaming, and some cried as parents did their best to keep their wee charges from the flying dirt.
The chopper, seeing it was stirring up a mess, went higher and then suddenly, it started to drop the eggs. Like Easter bombs, they fell, but not in the field. The chopper going higher miscalculated the bounce the plastic eggs would take when they hit the hard earth below, and well, R. Linda, I was pelted with hard plastic eggs. Some of the contents burst open like small missiles, and I (and others around me) were hit with hard jelly beans, small foil-wrapped hard chocolate candy eggs, and hard-shelled marshmallows, some things that were rather giant size, and I got a few of those in the head.
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 my forearms and a rather large-sized 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 is one, UNLESS we have hard hats and flack jackets or, as my youngest suggested, suits of armour.
We will stick with our kinder, gentler, old-fashioned Easter of kiddos hunting eggs in the morning, having Mam's Irish breakfast, and then going to church and home for a lovely dinner. No more modern ideas. Nope, nope, nopers, as the Weasil would say. This helicopter egg drop was probably right up his alley. Like Tonya said as we drove home from the Easter bombing, "You sure your friend Weasil wasn't flying that thing? Seems like something he'd do."
HUM.
Gabe
Copyright © 2018 All rights reserved
902
R. Linda:
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 had 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?
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 my forearms and a rather large-sized 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 is one, UNLESS we have hard hats and flack jackets or, as my youngest suggested, suits of armour.
We will stick with our kinder, gentler, old-fashioned Easter of kiddos hunting eggs in the morning, having Mam's Irish breakfast, and then going to church and home for a lovely dinner. No more modern ideas. Nope, nope, nopers, as the Weasil would say. This helicopter egg drop was probably right up his alley. Like Tonya said as we drove home from the Easter bombing, "You sure your friend Weasil wasn't flying that thing? Seems like something he'd do."
HUM.
Gabe
Copyright © 2018 All rights reserved
