Easter Parade.

It was Easter weekend and a bunch of my friends and I descended on my parent’s house in Southern Utah. The weather was perfect and the flora and fauna had appeared—mostly in the forms of Easter Bonnets. Brian’s was a hatbox filled with humping lambs. Joe had a gargantuan stuffed bunny strapped to his head, Jonathan sported a ken doll in a bridal gown, Dale wore a virtual flower garden on his head and mine was made of pinwheels and Marshmallow Peeps.

This was the first of what would be well over a dozen Easters in Ivins.

After an afternoon of gin and tonics and basking in the sun, we decorated the flatbed trailer. We adorned it with pastel-colored crepe paper, balloons, bunnies, baby ducks and a bubble blower or two.

Frank hitched it up the the pickup and we headed off of the compound and into the town, followed by a few more cars and trucks. All in all I would say there were about 20 of us—friends, family and neighbors.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Frank had forgotten there was a herd of people on the trailer. We were all sitting in unsecured lawn chairs and benches, some standing others sitting on the wheel wells. He gunned it and we took off at about 30 miles an hour. Mom yelled in no uncertain, profanity-laced terms to slow the (bleep) down but he either didn’t hear or ignored her completely. Chicken feathers and Peeps, ribbons and plastic fruit were left in the dust as we sang “Peter Cottontail” at the top of our lungs. Even Aunt Nan’s cherry-covered pillbox flew off and under the wheels of the car behind us. We were laughing our butts off—open containers in hand with an inebriated Frank at the wheel.

We made one stop after another at some of the locals’ homes, who treated us to even more cocktails. At our last stop we got a phone call from a friend that the police were waiting for us at our property gate. Frank told us all to get on the float and toss our drinks in the trash. He carefully crept out of the driveway and slowly made our way the the back of the property. The police never saw us.

We decided not to do the motorized bonnet parade anymore—opting instead for the safety of Mom and Frank’s patio from that time on.

These days, the bonnets are getting bigger and better. The cocktails are still flowing. We have a mini-bottle hunt and there are even more activities that I won’t mention in my family-friendly blog.