Hufflebergers and Snipes (or, How I got My Ass Kicked Each Easter)

As a child our family’s Easter traditions were nearly the same as the other families in our small West Virginia town. I would be roused before dawn for sunrise service, always slightly miffed at Jesus for rising so early that He interfered with my sleep schedule. After church, we would go home to diligently hunt for our Easter baskets that had been expertly hidden by the Easter Bunny. We never had to look very hard, as they were predictably in the dishwasher or toy cubby. We’d then gorge ourselves on chocolate rabbit heads, never making it past the necks, until our grandparents arrived for Easter brunch. After tucking away slivers of baked ham, pink pickled beet eggs, and homemade potato salad, my brother and I would drift back to our Easter baskets. As we rescued and ate stray jelly beans that were in danger of drilling their way down the mounds of plastic grass, lost to us unless we dumped our entire basket, the grown-ups would wash the dinner dishes and chat. One would think that this would give my brother and I a drowsy, homey feeling that would last the rest of the holiday, as our family pleasantly talked and we complacently browsed on the bounty of treats left to us, but this was not the case. Our tiny stomachs were in knots for the Easter activity that was to come. It was the event that the entirety of well fed, well groomed, and well-mannered children of our small town feared; the annual Chamber of Commerce Easter Egg Hunt.

This affair took place in the small park in the center of our town, and expectedly everyone turned out to participate. The chamber members had taken special care to hide hundreds of plastic eggs, filled with candy, small toys, and money, in every nook and cranny that our minuscule park possessed, including the coveted first prize golden egg that contained a fifty dollar bill. Because this was one of two major social events that my town had each year, our mother had taken special care to make sure my brother and I looked our absolute best. I can still see myself in my pink, hand-smocked dress with its stiff crinoline petticoat and my perfectly polished white Mary Jane’s with ruffled lace socks. My face was scrubbed to rosy perfection and my hair was in perfect blond ringlet curls. I looked just like type of little girl that nothing bad could happen to on such a perfect spring day, but I knew my appearance provided a sense of false promise. Pain was coming, and it was coming in the form of the Hufflebergers* and the Snipes*.

The Huffleberger and Snipe kids lived on Berry Hill, an area of our town near the only cemetery. As I grew older I suspected that the “Berry” must have once been “Bury” in reference to its location. Berry Hill was the roughest area in our town and home to a few families that could easy provide excellent case studies to any geneticist wishing to observe the outcome of interfamilial breeding. The Huffleberger and Snipe families kept to themselves, not even sending their multitude of unregistered children to our town’s two schools. There were scores of sordid stories about the criminal activity that occurred on Berry Hill and these tales were often confirmed in our local paper’s Magistrate Report section. At school the words Huffleberger and Snipe had become eponyms that we would often hurl at a classmate during a playground scuffle. In truth, we knew less about them than we proposed, as the only two times we ever saw them was when they left Berry Hill twice a year to attend the Fireman’s Carnival, and the annual Easter Egg Hunt.

So here I stood with my brother and our classmates in our best Easter finery, holding fast to the delicate handles of Easter baskets that our parents had lovingly intended for us to fill with plastic eggs, staring certain defeat in the eye. Our opponents, brought roughly down Berry Hill by a collection of sister-mothers and daddy-cousins, held a motley collection of pillowcases and buckets that were sure to be brimming with booty at the end of the battle. The mayor, dressed in a tired Peter Rabbit costume, blew the ceremonial whistle and the egg hunt began.

The beautiful thing about children is their eternal sense of hope even in times of certain despair. For even as I knew that I every egg I procured would bring a kick to the shins or a punch to the gut before a Huffleberger or Snipe purloined it, I still had scoped out several brightly colored ova to make a run for when the bunny blew the whistle. My predictions were soon validated as a Snipe, who appeared to have been born with an extra earlobe bent my fingers back to filch my first find. I quickly retreated to an area behind the bandstand where I found my brother nursing a bruised shin. From the corner of our refuge we spied our parents, happily conversing with the parents of our classmates. All of the adults seemed blissfully unaware that their tidy offspring were being bludgeoned by a group of mutant graveyard dwellers.

When the last egg had been found and the Mayor Bunny had heartily congratulated a skinny blonde boy in a dirty Dukes of Hazard t-shirt and torn jeans for finding the fifty dollar egg, we climbed into our Buick and drove to complete the last tradition of our Easter holiday; a visit to Dairy Queen. As I slowly licked the circumference of my dripping cone, my mother commented on how glad she was that the boy who won the fifty dollars had been from Berry Hill, because his family so needed the money. I quietly savored my ice cream, noticing only the well-scrubbed well-dressed members of my community in the booths surrounding us. I supposed she was right, as always. The Easter routine that I had taken so for granted hadn’t happened on Berry Hill. The egg hunt was the only thing those kids had, and even then they had to fight for it.

Ideally, I’d like to end this story by saying that I never ever again called a boy, picking on me on the playground, a dirty old Huffleberger, or that the following year I made a trek up Berry Hill to donate my own Easter goodies, but I can’t. I was subject to the same peer pressures, egocentricities and lack of introspection that most kids possess. However, in the years of my youth that followed, I smiled inwardly while rubbing a sore shoulder or shin, as the mayor held up victorious the small, scruffy hand of a Huffleberger or Snipe grasping the golden, fifty dollar egg.

Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate!

*names have been changed to protect my ass

14 thoughts on “Hufflebergers and Snipes (or, How I got My Ass Kicked Each Easter)

  1. Happy Easter to you, too!

    I loved all of this, but that parting “names have been changed” comment made me laugh aloud! Happy Easter to you, too. Thanks for reminding me–with your description–that I actually have a picture of myself in of the Easter egg hunts my mom used to take me and my siblings to. I should include that in my Easter entry.

    p.s. My son was so thoughtful, he waited till after I’d finished reading this entry to awaken from his 3-hour nap. Yay, him! 😀

  2. Hello. You said, “The beautiful thing about children is their eternal sense of hope even in times of certain despair.” Adults can learn a lot from children. They haven’t been tainted and influenced by many of the wrong thinking patterns, yet. Nice done. 🙂

  3. I must confess, I don’t see much need for the links. The Happy Easter “for those who believe” link seems kind of odd because one assumes they already know generally speaking what it’s about. Well, maybe not, Homer Simpson goes to church once or twice a week and he seems to have trouble following the plot. And I’m sure it would be useful to any Hufflebergers and Snipes who made it to your blog.

    Likewise; Family, Easter basket, Chamber of Commerce, and mayor ought to be understood by even a semiliterate reader.

    Nevertheless, The Dukes of Hazard County might need some explaining. And Possibly the Dairy Queen, hmmm, maybe, sort of, conceivably.

    Here’s some I didn’t get—but they didn’t have a link. Crinoline petticoat, Mary Jane’s, and eponyms.

    I think the idea behind the links is to link words in your current story to previously written related stories with similar themes.


    Well, with that bit of business out of the way, I must say this is up to your usual standard of excellence. I really enjoyed it.

    Keep um comin’

    • I’m not sure why WordPress picks the links that they do, but I go ahead and let them do it because I hope that a famous publisher, who has somehow forgotten the significance of of “golden egg” or “family,” does a search, somehow ends up here, reads my blog and then offers me millions of dollars to publish some of my ramblings! 🙂

      I very much hope that it doesn’t lead any Hufflebergers or Snipes to this blog. I actually only changed each of their last names by one letter! I’m banking on the fact that their mother-sisters and daddy-brothers never got them registered in public school, and that they still can’t read! I saw in my old hometown’s paper a few years ago that a Huffleberger beat his own mother-cousin to death with a 2×4 full of nails. I’m seriously scared of them! 🙂
      Thanks for the nice compliments. Have a fabulous day!

      • This was great! Gave me a laugh…I was just this morning remembering how great our Easter Egg hunts were in town, in the same tiny, but wooded, park. One year, a sister and I set out to find the golden egg. We found it, almost simtaneously…but it was stuck way up high in the crook of a tree.

        We arched our necks and stood on tippy toes in our Easter-best shiny black Mary Janes…but we knew we’d never reach it. Myself, more scrabbly by nature and undaunted by any dress my Mother put me in, was scratching my mop of hair trying to figure if I could crawl up the side of that tree.

        But it was hopeless. As we stood there staring upwards at that shining gold Egg Of Hope and Dreams, I waved down a passing parent, a youngish man with a rotten little boy of maybe 2 or 3 yars old, who didn’t even understand egg hunts anyway. I pointed to the egg and asked if he could reach it for us. He looked down at us, around at the other parents in the shaded park, then reached for the egg. When we extended our hand to grab our prize, he looked down upon us, and stuck the f#*#@ng egg in his snotty sons pillowcase!

        My sister and I were shocked! We were under the childish notion that adults were to be trusted, honorable, mature, and always willing to help children. He walked away without looking back, and we stood there, mouths agape, stunned.

        I hated that guy. And as an adult today, I am even more appalled!

        Oh. I should end on a happy note…

        Nice blog.

      • I didn’t know WordPress was behind that. Well, it’s nice to know you weren’t making those distinctions. I hope you get syndicated. You deserve it.

        2×4 full of nails?! “mother-sisters and daddy-brothers never got them registered in public school” OMG!! That family reminds me of the mutant family in the X-Files, where they kept the mother. . . well, I’ll go no further with the description, but Fox didn’t air that episode until four years after it was made. (Maybe Fox was afraid of the Hufflebers suing them. : )

      • Like Spectra said, this made me laugh. I was half-awake when I scrolled down the message on my phone, which it turned out was awake enough to awaken Ba.D. with my chuckling. 🙂

        Spectra, I would like to punch that man in the face. Truly.

      • That was! I was on the right, and my just-younger sister Rache was on the left. That particular hunt had no “grand” prize, so each of us was happy to get as much as we could. The more I read about Easter escapades, the more I think this approach has its merits! 😀

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