Today I went to an Easter Egg Hunt with two of my granddaughters. One is 6, the other 10 months old. Here is the crowd waiting to get in:

And here’s a shot at the Easter Egg Hunt (or should I say “hunt”) itself. Clearly, the eggs were not hidden, just strewn on the ground.

I watched from the sidelines. The last Easter egg hunt I had gone to had done me in.

It had been 15-20 years ago. Parents participated elbows high, shielding eggs so their child could pick them up and prevent other children from grabbing them.

Today, it was chaos on the lawn. My 6 year old granddaughter gathered eggs. Her mother told me that, early on, when W– had about 5 eggs and other kids had their baskets full, she turned to her mom and asked if she was doing something wrong.

“No,” her mom said, “you are being smart and kind.”

Smart — because at the end, kids turn their eggs in for a goody bag. It didn’t matter if they collected 2 eggs or 52 eggs. Everyone got the same goody bag.

Kind — because she wasn’t fighting other kids for the eggs. She was picking up eggs, not picking fights.

“What a great answer,” I told my daughter-in-law.

It was wonderful to spend part of a day with them — and I love the way they are raising their children.

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This is in response to Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: hide.

1967 was a year of change for me. My father left the Army to begin his career at the hospital in Cooperstown. My parents had purchased an old farmhouse with 100 acres of land.

At the end of that first summer there, my parents had each of their children sit for a portrait.

Here’s my younger brother who was 3 years old at the time.

This is me posing. It looks like I’m kicking the chair that the artist is using to balance her drawing board on. That doesn’t surprise me.

My middle brother is waiting his turn. I’m guessing we posed youngest to oldest.

My parents must not have stayed around to take pictures of the two oldest kids posing for their portraits.

Those five portraits still hang in my parents house. I’m not sure what to do with them.

What does one do with old portraits?

My father had a portrait done of my mother when they were on one of their trips. It hangs in the living room. Honestly, I never liked it. To me, it doesn’t look like her. But two of my children have asked for that portrait. They see something there that I don’t.

I have a friend with an oil portrait of Benjamin Brandreth. It’s stored in a closet in an unused bedroom. Benjamin Brandreth was a mid-19th century pill salesman. He had made a vegetable pill that was a cure-all. Not quite snake oil, but along the same lines. I’ve suggested finding a historical society near where he lived in New York to see if they are interested in it.

Our president, you know, put a picture of an auto-pen where Biden’s portrait should go in the presidential gallery. He also moved a portrait of Obama to a less prominent place in the White House so it could be replaced by a picture of … guess who.

There’s a part of me that would like to see that man’s portraits purged once he is gone, but someone has to be a grown-up here. May his portrait hang in the appropriate place.

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This is my response to Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: portrait.