Bringing that Easter snow indoors...

Holidays take on an entirely different flavor when your children are adults. For one thing, they are less hectic. We no longer include in our pre-holiday plans visits to the mall for the obligatory snapshot with junior on Santa’s lap; there are no more brunches with the Easter Bunny to attend. We don’t have to color eggs, buy baskets, decide which treats will best fit into plastic eggs, or spend two weeks vacuuming that annoying green and pink plastic grass.

Another benefit of not having little ones around to busy up the holidays is that it allows more time to ponder the “reason for the season.” Easter, of course, is a celebration of Christ’s (and our own eventual) triumph over death. It also closes out the period of Lent when, hopefully, we’ve been working on the penitential journey toward becoming a better person – more Christ-like. It also makes it easier, slightly easier, to get to those Holy Week services at Church.

So for those of us currently (but hopefully not eternally) without little ones to infuse chaos into our holidays, the calm is welcome. Life, after all, offers plenty of opportunities to encounter stress. Entertaining is easier too; the food and conversation can move to the center of the Easter banquet. Then again, as I look out the window at our second consecutive day of snowfall, I recall with fondness those hectic holidays. And, I think about bunny tracks.

When our children were little, hubby and I fleshed out the Easter Bunny myth for them each year by doing more than simply filling and hiding their Easter baskets; we spread white bunny tracks all through the house using flour. Each Easter Saturday eve, after the kids went to bed, we tracked through the house with homemade paw print stencils and a sifter full of flour, spreading tracks all over the floors. The next morning, the children dashed around at dawn following each track to its end, where a stash of sweet treasure was to be found.

The flour tracks, of course, represented snow that Easter Bunny carelessly carried inside while delivering treats; the kids never seemed to notice that these white tracks appeared even on Easter mornings when temps were in the 40s and 50s and there was no snow to be found anywhere in the state. The myth played out for all of us.

Of course, spreading flour all over your house does add a bit of added work to an already busy day. Somehow, though, the expressions on the faces of your bunny-enamored youngsters make the mess more than worth it. Recalling my children's faces, their sheer exuberance over it all, leaves me wishing I could trade this now-quiet holiday in for a chaotic one, if even for a little while. Happy Easter to all.

Our Easter morning in 1982. Note the bunny tracks circled in yellow.

Later that Easter day (?) or perhaps one year later.

Before Macy's, before Marshall Fields, was the Dayton's annual

Breakfast with the Easter Bunny! I'm guessing this was in 1992.

The passing of a great writer ...

For his many fans, Jon Hassler’s name will forever be linked to the mythical village of Staggerford, or the stalwart Agatha McGee, the heroine of many of his works of fiction. I’ve read a few of Hassler’s books so I’m familiar with old Agatha. And, I know enough about the man to know Staggerford is loosely based on Hassler’s boyhood home of Plainview, Minnesota, the same town where the Jon Hassler Theatre has staged a half dozen productions every year since opening in 2002.

Also in Plainview, housed in the Hassler boyhood home, is the Rural America Writer’s Center, a place where writers like me can commune with others to work on the craft and learn from those who are more advanced.

Hassler, who died today from Parkinson’s Disease, wasn’t as well known as Garrison Keillor, perhaps. But in my opinion, he did more to help and inspire local writers than any other Minnesota author. Hassler was shy and introspective, yet focused. One must be focused to create the body of work he did. One must make sacrifices too, and Hassler understood this. His first marriage failed because of his devotion to his craft.

I met Jon Hassler once on an extraordinary autumn day: September 11, 2001. I met his wife, Gretchen, too. I had gone to their house in South Minneapolis to take the author’s portrait for an upcoming magazine feature we were producing. The sky was crystalline blue that day. It was nearly 80 degrees and the blue canopy, devoid of typical airline traffic, was eerily quiet.

It was an odd day to be sure. Gretchen was torn between television coverage and a phone that was ringing off the hook; it was family calling. All of them, trying to make sense of what was going on out east. Hassler was polite and patient as I framed some shots of him in the kitchen and then in the backyard. Neither of us spoke much about the attacks; I don’t think either of us understood what had happened, how the world was about to change. Forever.

I have, framed in my office, the portrait of Hassler that I took that day. It takes on special meaning on this day of his death.

Hassler never wrote about skyscrapers or terrorists. He wrote about small towns. He created characters who were flawed and deeply human. He wrote simply. Most of his characters were simple, good people trying to get along in the world, in a simple world, a small town world. A world, I hope, which still exists.

The thing about life...

Here's an uplifting quote: "The thing about life is that one day you'll be dead."

Actually, it's more than a quote; it's the title of a memoir by David Shields.

Salon.com recently reviewed the book, which is more a laundry list of the maladies of aging than a first-hand account of dying and death -- although that's in there too. Here are just a few of the interesting, albeit depressing, facts about aging listed in the review:

Strength and coordination peak at 19. Arteriosclerosis can kick in at 20, which is also when joint function begins to decline. Hormone production begins to ebb at 25; bone mass tops off at 30. Smell, hearing, fingernails, hair ... going, going, gone. Every year, maximum heart rate drops a beat and height drops one-sixteenth of an inch. Skin dries; organs shrink. After 40, grip strength declines; at 65, aerobic capacity is down 30 to 40 percent; at age 90, half your kidneys' blood-filtering capacity is gone.

If you're a man, you'll have lost roughly 15 percent of your total mineral density by the time you're played out. For women, the figure is 30 percent. And the brain? Dwindling, too. The brain peaks in size at 25 and, once it passes the mid-century mark, loses 2 percent of its weight for every decade. If you're fortunate enough to reach 90, your brain will be the size of a 3-year-old's. And there's not a thing to be done about it.

Read the full Salon.com review here.

Where does this all leave me? With a favorite line from Steven King's novella turned film The Shawshank Redemption: Get busy living, or get busy dying.