When I was little, Easter meant only one thing – a visit from the Easter Bunny. The fact that it was when Jesus rose from the dead to save us all wasn’t on my horizon yet. (I hope I wasn’t the only child to get religion late!) At our house, the Easter Bunny (hereinafter referred to as EB, for brevity’s sake) left clues for my sister and me written in rhyme, hidden in various rooms, leading eventually to our Easter baskets. Even after we were grown, and long past the age of believing in EB, he still left us clues. Just as, long past the time we stopped believing in Santa Claus, we still hung our stockings on Christmas Eve and found them filled with goodies Christmas morning. It seems the magic of childhood is never completely gone, thank heavens!
Read all of "Inkspots" in the April 8 Advance.