Fellow Wavemakers, at about 5 AM April 7 1985, I laid back down in bed fully confident that I had committed the perfect crime. After all, there was only one who could have been called to testify against me, and not only would he not return to these parts for another year, I was fairly sure he didn't even speak English. Besides, who would my parents believe: me, their angelic son, or some trespassing rabbit?
My family has a unique set of holiday traditions, and one in particular became my accomplice that morning. Every Easter morning, the Taylor children would find a trail of small foil-wrapped eggs leading from our bedsides out into the hall, then to our baskets in the living room. The appearance of the tell-tale trails meant that Easter morning had come, and it was time to wake the parents. Except this time, I chose to go have a look myself.
Taking care not to disturb my younger brother, who slept on the top bunk, I crept out into the light of the hallway, the shining paths running parallel for its length. I tiptoed between them, so as to not break the lines of chocolaty goodness. Through the foyer and into the living room where the familiar three baskets awaited. My own was on the left, timeworn compared to the others, with a fading green bow of thick yarn on the handle, distinguishing it from my younger sister's, with a pink bow, and my brother's, with a yellow one. Heart racing, I spied the wealth of sugary goodies that I would later enjoy. I then had a thought: we don't really like the same thing, my siblings and I. Why, if I were to equitably exchange my favorites that they had for their favorites that I had, I would be doing everyone a favor. After all, however magnanimous he may be, the Easter bunny is still just a hare brain.
And so, over the next fifteen minutes, I swapped candy. Their peanut butter treats were replaced with my coconut ones, their crispy with my plain, their grape with my lemon. Oh, I may have kept more than I returned, but I was older, and who would know? Not my parents, as they had been in bed hours before our lapine visitor arrived. And the hippity-hoppity one himself had millions upon millions of other homes to visit, surely never looking back once his chore was done.
With even greater care than before, possibly due to a guilty conscience, I crept back to bed. I made a point of not being the first one to make the rounds that year...no need to arouse any undue suspicion. Alas, even the grandest plan will fail when its basic assumptions prove false. I count it now as merely my own bad luck that this world is not quite so magical as it appears to a child, and as I know now, there is sadly no Easter Bunny. It was this essential flaw in reality that allowed my parents to recognize that the treats they had placed in each basket mere hours before were not distributed as they originally had been.
After church, I was confronted by my parents. They knew! Or rather, they had figured it out somehow. Clearly, they could not have simply known. I must have given myself away somehow, I thought. I admitted it all, defending its mutually beneficial pretense at length, but to no avail. I was to be punished, I was told.
I was not good at being punished. I was awkward even then, not to mention a touch absent minded. Washing dishes in the sink was usually a moist mess. Taking the trash out waswould usually slip my mind. But my parents knew me well. The devised a poetic and educational punishment. By Wednesday, I was ordered to turn over my wallet, which was stuffed full of birthday cash, allowance, and a few bucks from aunts and uncles for Easter. A whole 35 dollars! Just enough, my parents told me, to buy a $75 savings bond. It pained me. I was...frugal. I continue to be so, bordering on cheap. Having to spend ALL my money on anything was torture. I'd see it again, they told me. In TWELVE years! TWELVE! I would be 19 by then...OLD! In the meantime, I would have to find solace in the small yellow and green bit of card stock, Alexander Hamilton's face pocked with computer punches. I resented this greatly, to put it mildly.
Something strange happened, though. No, I didn't suddenly treat my siblings any better. I did gain a bit of respect for self-determination and property, though. Stranger still, as time passed, I saw the wisdom of their choice. Many seek justice when it profits them. Some, even when it does not. Very rarely, though, is justice appreciated when it is brought swiftly down upon you. When 1997 came around, I had accumulated several more savings bonds. Almost all of those went towards the purchase of my first car. All except the first one. It still accrues interest, albeit at a much-reduced market rate. I keep it not as a financial investment, but as a reminder of when my parents invested an understanding of justice in me.