Just before heading to Easter Mass, my younger brothers and I were always led to our grandpa's henhouse.
Ironic in that we were in our Easter finery.
A scratchy, pink crinoline dress, lacy white anklets and patent leather Mary Janes for me. Ill-fitting Robert Hall suits for the boys.
The odor assaulted us first.
Then, the muck.
Holding our breathe, we catiously tip-toed over damp, skinny planks -- being careful not to step in juicy chicken droppings.
Inside, a half-dozen nests miraculously cradled pastel- tinted eggs.
We scooped them out, made the treacherous exit and felt relieved. We'd survived an annual egg hunt unlike all others.
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