The best prize
A child shows us about joy
I think I was four years old. Maybe five. My father was a member of the Elks club. Or was it the Lions? Lions would have been appropriate, but I think it was Elks.
It was spring in North Carolina, and the dandelions were already a mixed crowd of toothy, bright yellow blossoms and brown seeds clinging to tiny, white spiders, ragged green leaves encircling the stems of all of them.
One Sunday, Daddy bundled me into the family station wagon, and we drove to his club. There were lots of people already there, and lots and lots of children roughly my age. The sun was radiant, the grass was green, the sky was blue—it was idyllic, and although I remember what it looked like, I probably didn’t appreciate it at the time.
I can almost still hear Daddy’s voice encouraging me to hunt for Easter eggs. “There are prizes!” he told me. “Prizes for whoever finds the most eggs.”
I peered up at his smiling face, and although it wasn’t clear to me why finding more eggs deserved another prize—wasn’t the largest haul of eggs a reward it itself?—his enthusiasm was infections. Dutifully, holding tight to the prickly, curved handle of my straw basket, I toddled across the grass.
I didn’t get far before I encountered a dandelion puff. Yay! I squatted down, plucked the fluffy white thing, lifted it to my little face, and blew at it as hard as I could. Fluff spiders sailed away on the light breeze.
“Robin, honey, what about under that bush over there?” I turned to face Daddy and watched as he pointed to a shrub, its green leaves growing low to the ground on thick stems—a perfect hiding place for a colorful egg. Obediently I headed in that direction.
Before I reached the shrub.... Yay! Another dandelion puff! Again I plucked, blew hard, and laughed with delight as the tiny brown seeds headed off to new adventures. A tow-headed boy in brown pants and a red-and-white striped shirt dashed toward the shrub and claimed the egg that should have been mine. Or, that is, the egg my father thought should have been mine.
“That’s okay, that’s fine,” Daddy insisted. “What about over there?” He pointed at another potential treasure trove, and again I waddled off in the direction he pointed me toward. But: Yay! Another dandelion puff!
At some point three gaily-colored eggs found their way into my basket. I can’t say now who put them there. I won none of the prizes the event had boasted. But I freed more fluff spiders than there were eggs under all the bushes. And I had more fun than I would have had if I’d found every hidden egg on the entire Elks Club grounds.
It was a wonderful day. I think Daddy would have agreed.
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I’m an inveterate observer of human nature, writing novels about all kinds of people, some of whom happen to be gay or transgender or bisexual or intersex—people whose destinies are not determined solely by their sexual orientation or gender identity. Check out my work on my website.
What a joy-filled memory!