Book Review: The Spider Who Saved Christmas, By Raymond Arroyo
When I was a young--somewhere along the age of first memories--I had a life-changing experience. The Easter Egg hunt began on a rather warm April morning. Somehow I remember this standstill day despite all the ordinary days before this moment fading into a black hole of nothingness.
My mother, a veteran of child rearing by the time she got around to having me, dressed me in one of those flouncy little baby girl dresses including bouncy skirt, white, ruffed top, and (one row) ruffed socks that were interrupted by tennis shoes. That I was dressed so beautifully given the nature of an egg hunt describes well the bygone age and era that I was born into and navigated.
The town I lived in was patriotic because all the men a little over a decade before had been shipped off to fight a war thousands of miles away. When the ones who survived the bullets pointed at them returned, they built American Legions to remember those who died over there. These were real men who neither cried at funerals nor spared the rod to spoil the child, but that didn't mean they lacked a heart.
We waited, my dad holding tightly onto my hand until the race would begin. The front lawn where the hunt was to start was small and full of bushes, benches, and other things that hid candy eggs well.
So many children were there that I felt lost in the crowd. Then we lined up along the sidewalk. My dad gave me final instructions, basically to run and find the eggs when the man over there (and he pointed) told us to start. My dad went over to talk to some other men he knew near the doors leading into the building.
It happened so fast after that. The man who was in charge of the egg hunt quickly raised his hand then dropped it down towards the ground and yelled: “Go.”
Just like a hesitant horse out of the starting gate of a race, I stalled for one second before I heard my dad say, “Elizabeth, run!”
I tried to pick up the first egg I found. But just as I bent down, some other hunter snatched it up. My dad walked over to me and said as he pointed, “There's another one! Get it!”
I dutifully did as he told me when another kids grabbed that one too. Ten seconds into that race I had been outfoxed. By this time there were no eggs left in that front lawn and all the kids swarmed to the playground across the street where other marshmallow eggs were hidden.
My dad told me to hurry, and jogged quickly across the street and I followed close behind. No sooner had I arrived at the playground than I found I was miles behind the other hunters and there was nothing left to scavenge.
Undeterred, my father coaxed me to look for eggs in a part of the park's bushes that had not yet been swarmed. I saw them!
As fast as I could run to them, some other boys ran there faster and gobbled up those two candy eggs. Then I turned to see there were no more eggs. None. The playground had been emptied of all the eggs.
I cried like the world was ending. All the anticipation, all the awe, all the joy of expectation--all gone now as children, all of them except me, had devoured their candy eggs.
I observed through my tears countless other hunters smiling as they left the field that moments before had hidden eggs from their sight. My wicker basket was decidedly empty with nothing to show for my efforts. Perhaps I was a failure at hunting, or too slow to survive the trial. I cried over the lesson that the very young and slow cannot match those who played the game before.
My dad left me there for a moment. I vaguely recall not being alarmed by this abandonment, perhaps since it is best to cry alone as no one else may ever truly share our bitter disappointments.
By this time there was no one left in the park. I heard my dad's voice telling me to follow him. I obliged, pausing my cryfest long enough to cross the road again.
Then I noticed my dad talking to another man as I stood next to the well trimmed shrubs sitting in the Legion's front yard. They walked over to me and my dad ushered me two steps away from the bush. He tried to distract me and he managed to draw my attention to a bird in the air.
Then my dad told me to look at the bush, and then pointed to a candy egg that hadn't been there before. At first glance I didn't want to claim it, feeling that it wasn't mine. Perhaps I sensed the set-up and felt it was cheating.
The other man told me that the Easter Bunny must have hid it especially for me. I reached into the bush and retrieved the candy.
In the end, it didn't matter how it happened, all that mattered was I found something I coveted. The tears still sticking to my swollen eyes didn't matter, all that I felt was happiness.
I stared at the egg inside my basket. I stared at it as we got into the parked car. I stared at it as my dad started the car and shifted the long shift stick and drove the few miles home.
At home I noticed that the Raspberry Marshmallow egg was crumbled. Obviously to everyone (other than me) it had been stepped on. Nothing mattered however other than I did not come home empty-handed. With great joy, I unwrapped it, eager to taste the spoils.
Happiness has many forms. Our brains become altered by the circumstances in which we experience it. The power of it manipulates our personality from the earliest age. The hunt taught me to be more assertive, that those who hesitate lose what they want, sometimes we a need a powerful ally especially when life is unfairly stacked, and lastly but not least, never wear a dress when the occasion calls for running shorts.
If only we would hunt for God with the same gusto children have hunting for eggs, we would find real happiness.