July 1, 2010
from the comments
He lived in a small house on Long Island and every Easter he’d hide eggs all over the house and there’d be a hunt. These were hollowed-out egg shells with pinholes on the top and bottom, painted in pastels. And, man, he hid them everywhere. Most were taped under kitchen chairs. You’d pop off the front of the sheet-metal radiator and there’d be four eggs in there. People would raid the pantry, dump out all the flour and coffee and sugar and find eggs buried. One time he cut the top off a full jug of cranberry juice, sank a weighted egg into it, and melted the top back on so the cap was still sealed. This other time an aunt slid a framed picture to one side to find that a square hole had been cut in the sheet-rock wall and quickly replaced. She punched a hole in the wall there and, sure enough, found an egg. Eggs in light bulbs. Eggs in toilet tanks. And every time we found a tricky one he’d say, “You louse!” with a big smile on his face. He was a hell of a guy.
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