Of practical jokes and Cadbury eggs

When she was in high school, my daughter and I had a history of playing practical jokes on each other. She was clever. Sometimes fiendishly so.

From shaving cream in the shoe (usually an old pair of sneakers, sometimes my favorite house slippers) to the old rubber-band-on-the-spray-nozzle-of-the-sink gag, we both loved trying to better the other on each successive prank.

At Christmas time each year, my family would pass around lists of small things we wanted "Santa" to bring us, and we could then choose from the list presents we could give which were sure to be wanted. On my list one year I jokingly included the item "tiny butt". (That was the year I discovered Cherry Garcia ice cream, I think.)

That year under the tree, I found a small box with my name on it which looked suspiciously like a ring box. Horrified, because most of my gifts were of the modest (translation: inexpensive) variety, I frantically wondered how I would cover my not-so-tiny butt by explaining that "Santa" had not been able to get all of the gifts on his sleigh or some other ridiculous ruse to enable me to go shopping again and buy a more elaborate present for whoever had put me in this predicament.

When my turn came, I warily opened the box. Inside was an item which was unrecognizable upon first inspection. I took it out -- obviously a ring, and examined it. There, glued to an adjustable one-size-fits-all gumball ring, was the skillfully excised hind quarters of a small troll doll. (Did I mention she was "fiendish"?) I did get my tiny butt, after all -- and I didn't have to go shopping again, either. I proudly wore the thing until the cheap metal finally gave up and broke.

When Easter time came around each year, and Cadbury eggs became available on the store shelves, we would both hide the little ones in various places to be found by the other. They were-- like a lot of Easter egg hunts -- never completed, and it was always a pleasure to find a forgotten egg in a pair of winter mittens the following fall or in a coffee mug pushed to the back of the cabinet until a dinner party forced the use of all of them. It always made me smile to remember that she had placed it there, probably grinning, the previous Easter season. Sometimes, being the choc-o-holic that I am, I even ate them. It depended on how flattened it was.

I say all of that to say this: My husband and I divorced about 10 years ago. My daughter is a married college graduate who has graciously gifted me with my grandson, now going on 2 years old. Life has moved on. Not all of my clothes of the prankster era have remained wearable (ok, ok, so I've gained a little weight), but most of my shoes still fit. Snow boots are something rarely needed here in the South, but I have kept them -- for posterity, for the possibility, or probably just because I never throw anything out.

As I write this, beside me is a small, flat, nearly unidentifiable object wrapped in red and blue foil. A modicum of boot fuzz is sticking to it. It seems one Easter time -- I have no idea which one -- a small Cadbury egg was placed in a snowboot by a grinning high school girl. Finding it a few months ago brought back a flood of pleasant, yet bittersweet, memories. Where does time go?

I have started to again hide Cadbury eggs in some of the packages I send to my dear daughter, her wonderful husband and their precious son. She hasn't yet taken up the game -- possibly because as a college graduate, she has a slightly more refined sense of humor that doesn't include Cadbury eggs. I don't want to believe she doesn't remember our game. I haven't mentioned the foundling to her, and if she doesn't remember, she may think I've gone completely senile. That's ok, though -- I remember.

And although I am a confirmed, obvious choc-o-holic, I'm not going to eat this one. I'm even wondering how I could have it made into a necklace.