Over the previous two weeks, we received nine Easter egg hunt announcements. We published all of them and did our best to collect a few photos of the egg gatherers.

Without exception, the collected eggs were plastic pieces that split into two parts and reassemble once they have been filled with candy and other treats. My child was born on an Easter Sunday, so many birthday parties included searches for these types of eggs. For years after scavenger hunts lost their appeal, we found plastic egg parts under shrubs and inside squirrel hollows, the edges notched with tiny teeth marks.

Over the ages plastic egg colors have ranged from your primary school color wheel: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. Now the big box store shelves stock glitter pageant-pink and tie dye eggs. There are even various shades in camo, which I will never, ever understand considering the Easter message of light and life. Let’s mull that over for a breathe or two.

Moving on, Easter egg hunts seem to me a major jump into spring, both feet firmly planted in greening grass. Maybe those feet aren’t bare yet, but the promise of shoeless weather has been extended. Soon we’ll enjoy close encounters with eggs that haven’t been molded, stamped and shipped for one one-hundredths on the dollar from oversees to big box craft stores.

I’m talking the true blue life affirmation robins’ eggs of the finest turquoise and frog eggs clusters that burst with squiggly tadpoles. Even that male cardinal, the finch who beats himself senseless on my mom’s car’s rearview mirror every morning, means love or akin to it is thrumming through Northwest Ohio.

As for me, I will hunt for warm, brown chicken eggs, the numbers of which will keep pace with the growing grass. Each day leads me through straw, empty bee hives and under donkey’s hay for fresh eggs. Every find is exciting— a sign of health and goodness for every season.