If you’re like me, one thing you don’t want to read on any newspaper’s opinion/editorial page is a columnist’s goofy accounts of family activities.

Hard-hitting editorials, yes. Readers’ letters of outrage, of course. Columnists’ stories about a once-in-a-lifetime trip or vacation, precocious kids, zany older relatives,cute capers and the prerequisite “words to live by,” no, no and no again.

It’s self-serving dribble about strangers; people you never met, and people you never want to meet ever in your life.

Besides: Doesn’t everybody have cute grandchildren, smart teen-agers,lovable grandparents?

Who cares about anybody else, when you’ve got the best of America’s Funniest Home Videos in the backyard for a family reunion?

Well, let me tell you about my Easter weekend. It was incredible. Nothing like it anywhere.

After many years living in a house, which was obviously more conducive to family gatherings, I now live in an apartment at Pickett Place senior housing.

When my daughter and her six children visit, it presents some challenges mainly about my precious stuff; things that I don’t like disturbed.

The recent Easter holiday was an example how a visit from certain out-of-control grandchildren creates tension.

The night before their visit Easter Sunday, I hid all of my priceless stuff in a closet.

Don’t laugh. I learned the hard way, when one of the little terrorists — I have my suspicions who it was — took the wheels off my classic Pinewood Derby race car. They’ve never been found.

So, I cleared the shelves and reachable drawers in anticipation of an Easter Sunday visit.

When my daughter and her children visit, we all sit in the back of the church to avoid any flareups the preacher might see from the pulpit.

The littlest grandchildren spent the hour commuting from the nursery play room to our seats in a pew out of the line of sight from the man telling up the true meaning of Easter far away.

They always asked the same question: “Is it over yet?”

I wonder what a blood pressure cup would have registered after the fifth time I was asked that question Sunday?

The worst was yet to come: Dinner at a restaurant. There isn’t room in my apartment for a family dinner, so this year I made a reservation for 10 at the popular Jerry’s Other Place restaurant and told them to hire extra security.

After a nerve-wracking time in church, we waited with other families to be seated.

I remember adults friends stopping by to exchange Easter greetings. They looked relaxed and happy. Of course, they didn’t have any small grandchildren  with them.

When we were seated, the wait staff welcomed us, filled our water glasses and left menus. As each member of the Bonorden party for 10 ordered, I mentally calculated whether or not my Social Security check would cover the cost of the meal or would I be washing dishes and miss the Easter egg hunt.

While waiting for our food, I patiently answered a parade of little people, who asked me loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear: “Why are they taking so long to get us our food?”

Dinner was served. It surprised a couple of grandchildren to learn food was served on plates instead of a paper bag with a toy inside, and there was no play room to visit, during the meal.

The food was great, and I made everyone clear their plates, anticipating a surprise when the bill came.

When the check arrived, that last thing I remember was a grandchild, snatching the check and reading the amount of our bill and announcing for all “Wow! That’s a lot of money, Grandpa. Do you have enough to pay for this?”

I want to thank the Hansen party of 8 for helping revive me or was it the Klaehn party of 7?

We went to Neveln Elementary School’s playground to fly kites and have an Easter egg hunt.

The next time we do something like this I will be sure all of my grandchildren visit the restroom before going to a place that has no public restrooms. Thank goodness there were tress and bushes available.

The three youngest grandchildren were allowed to participate in the Easter egg hunt. Naturally, it ended in a fight.

The hunt was rigged so my 2-year-old great-granddaughter would win. Her eggs were hid in plain sight.

Alas! An over-eager 10-year-old ignored my One-Two-Three-God! command snatched the eggs hid or in plain sight.

He will be banned from all future Easter egg hunts.

When the Easter Sunday family fun was over, we exchanged hugs and kissed and bade each other farewell.

I was deposited at my Pickett Place apartment, and the daughter and grandchildren went their own ways.

“I survived another Easter family holiday,” I said to myself. “We all survived it.”

Now, I have a year to recover. That’s 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days. It’s enough time to narrow down my suspects in the theft of the wheels on my classic Pinewood Derby model car.