The Cornelius kids — Clay, Darby, and Kyla — say “Happy Easter” at Grandma Iva’s house in 1988.

Egg hunts. Easter bonnets. Wearing your Sunday best. It was 1988, and it was good.

I was 7 years old, and I had no idea what bills were, except for the ones I found folded inside those plastic eggs. Most of them had change or jelly beans in them, but when you found a lightweight one, you knew you hit the jackpot! A whole dollar! Woohoo! I could buy a My Little Pony. Maybe. Or just squander it at the candy store. At any rate, I was rich in 1980s 7-year-old land!

My big brother Clay, little sister Kyla, and I always wore our Sunday best on Easter, and attended church. We learned about Jesus and the real meaning of Easter, which we appreciated then and now. But when you’re a kiddo, you’re antsy to get to that Easter basket!

Our parents always made sure we had a blast. They hid plastic eggs full of candy and/or money around the house, and hid our Easter baskets. The treasure hunt was on, and we were full of anticipation. Every year, “the Easter Bunny” would hide our baskets in different places that got more interesting as we got older. Like, when you’re 5 it might be in your own bedroom closet, but by the time you’re 8, it’s in the dryer. You had to look harder each year. I think once my brother turned 13, Dad put his on the roof that year. He had to climb up the giant antennae to get it, and he’s afraid of heights. It was hilarious to me, his daredevil 11-year-old sister, but possibly traumatizing to him. He seems fine now, though. In case you were worried.

Anyway, after we found our baskets, we would go to our grandparents’ houses and the fun would continue. Our family has always been very focused on making sure the children have fun and make special memories. I recall my great-grandparents on my mom’s side, whom we called “Oma” and “Opa” (Hattie and Otto Kelm), would hide those tiny foil-wrapped chocolate eggs all around their house. Sometimes we wouldn’t find them all and Oma couldn’t remember where she hid them so we would randomly find dusty old chocolate eggs throughout the year. It was pretty funny.

We dyed eggs with Mom each Easter, which I’m not sure Clay was super into, but I recall Kyla and I really enjoying it. I still love it. I do it to this day, whether or not anyone joins me. It’s just fun and nostalgic.

In the spirit of continuing the Easter traditions of yesteryear, we wanted to make our own childhood memories with our son. Since my family always hid plastic eggs, we decided on the very bright idea of taking one dozen brightly colored dyed hard-boiled eggs outside and hiding them in the yard each Easter morning for Mason to find. Now, I use the term “bright idea” loosely, in case the sarcasm was not clear. Once, my beloved husband, who shall remain nameless, hid one of the edible eggs in the exhaust pipe of my car. I will wait for you to digest that, and then agree with me that throwing that particular egg away was the correct decision. Another time, an egg may or may not have been snacked on by a wild animal before our child ventured upon it. So our traditions certainly may be memorable, but not necessarily intelligent.

At any rate, Mason always had fun finding the eggs, and then his Easter basket full of way too many Snickers and Reese’s and whatever other nonsense ended up in there atop the shiny plastic grass that gets all over your house until the Fourth of July.

We used to take him to those city-wide egg hunts down in Battle Creek when he was a wee one. Most were good. Well-organized with excellent layouts and age categorization. Then we tried a new one. EPIC FAIL.

It was an absolute madhouse. Outdoors at a huge park. A massive crowd had already gathered early, and we had never been to this one, so we didn’t know what to expect, or where to stand, or which parents were likely to punch us in the face. But we were nervous. It looked like it was about to go down, and we hadn’t trained for this moment. The others had. Mason was only 4.

I was eyeing the eggs on the field, and shifting my gaze back and forth from eggs to the ravenous buzzards that were the humans around us. They wanted those plastic eggs like a hyena wants a helpless lion cub. And I wasn’t sure what I wanted more ­– the eggs or my son’s safety in that primal split-second.

“BWAAAAAW!!!”

The horn sounded, and the insanity unleashed.

In no less than five seconds, zero eggs were left for Mason. The vultures had swept them all away, and we were left with an empty basket. In shock, I just looked down at my sweet little son and told him, “It’s OK.”

I expected him to cry, but instead, a tear trickled down my cheek.

Then, to my great surprise, a little girl and her dad approached us and offered to give Mason some of her eggs. What a kind deed! My tears turned to tears of joy. I was so grateful and learned that day that a simple act of kindness can do wonders for someone who is going through a struggle. Even if it was me in that moment. Little Mason was just excited to get some candy, wherever it came from. But he probably learned a lesson about sharing as well. All I know is he was smiling ear to ear.

It’s all about the smiles. Seeing that child smile. Knowing you made that child happy makes you feel like a kid again, if only for a brief moment. We relive that feeling of not knowing what bills are, of not caring what time it is, of knowing all our needs are going to be met, and then some. Putting a smile on a child’s face transports us to a place we’ve all been before. A place of joy.

That’s what Easter is all about.

Darby (Cornelius) Hinkley accepts Easter eggs full of chocolate, change, poems, Hungry Hippie gift cards, or even rocks. Just don’t put anything in her exhaust pipe, please. Reach her at dhinkley@thealpenanews.com or 989-358-5691.