Easter Recollections

April 24^th of this year is Easter Sunday.  I’m in my mid-forties now and realize the singular importance of Easter to my faith, but growing up, my memories do not center on going to church with my family.  Although I will say that our Easter church attendance most certainly did happen even if we didn’t go on any other Sunday that year.  I still hate clip-on ties!

Early Easter preparations would usually begin Wednesday or Thursday evening before Good Friday.  Not because we held to a rigid religious schedule – as you should have already gathered from the paragraph above – but because we needed dyed eggs for the Friday egg hunt at Woodmeade Elementary School in Decatur, Alabama.  

To a young, skinny boy (yes I used to be very skinny) a kitchen in the middle of the Easter egg process was not much different than the excited air of the Sistine Chapel as Michelangelo was creating his ceiling masterpieces.  My mother would have the eggs in various stages of production with a pot boiling on the stove with six or seven eggs and a pinch of salt (her secret to keep the eggs from cracking).  The counters would have five or six old coffee mugs filled with red, blue, yellow, green and black PAAS dye and smelling heavily of vinegar, and finally small cardboard egg-holders and an old white towel would be on the kitchen table with the colorful creations “bleeding” on its cotton surface.  Only seven to ten eggs would go to school with me Friday morning, while the rest of the eggs were saved for egg hunts at my grandparent’s home later Sunday afternoon. 

 At school, we were all in a frenzy over the pre-lunch egg hunt with math, Alabama history and grammar the farthest things from our minds.  The teacher took up our egg collections and a few volunteer mothers (I don’t really recollect any dads coming to school for such activities) took hundreds of eggs outside to the opposite side of the school from where our classroom windows faced.  They were hidden carefully at first, but soon the mothers were scattering them about like rice at a wedding in an effort to save time and their sanity.

About forty-five minutes before lunch we were given instructions on the etiquette of Easter egg hunting: no running (just walk quickly); no shoving or pushing; no tripping or stealing of eggs was to occur during the hunt.  A polite hunt was paramount and all the niceties were to be strictly observed! 

Then, when we were unleashed upon the school lawn . . .  pandemonium!  All heck broke loose and all the prohibited behavior was exhibited in its wildest forms as well as a few Andre the Giant and Tojo Yamamoto moves that they knew nothing about.  It was wonderful entertainment back in the day, and would have given Facebook, World of Warcraft or Modern Warfare a run for their money.

Prizes were given out for the most eggs collected, although no teacher could quite figure out how to count partial eggs.  Just before we went home for the day a few of us were sporting upset stomachs either from all of the candy we ate or from cracking open and eating some of the sun-baked Easter eggs themselves.

When Sunday morning arrived, I remember waking up and running to the den, and finding the joy of Easter morning . . . my Easter basket!  After I struggled through the cellophane I would quickly begin assessing my haul!  Generally the centerpiece was a milk chocolate hollow bunny wrapped in colorful foil (I don’t recall them tasting very good though), a few plastic eggs, a collection of smaller, egg-shaped candies and chocolates, Peeps and a novelty tin or plastic toy or two including a car like a Hot Wheels. 

It would always take a few minutes to sort through the basket’s grass to make sure no other candy was hidden there.  I don’t understand why the Easter basket makers fill the basket with so much artificial grass and so few “goodies.”     

After church we would drive to Moulton, Alabama as we did most Sunday afternoons, to visit my father’s parents.  They had a large property off Main Street with a yard created especially for children to run, play hide and seek and secret away Easter eggs once a year.  We would take turns hiding and finding the eggs, and my grandmother even got in on the action a bit although we were advised by her not to hide any eggs around her peonies.  They were too purty to mess up!  After she was too tired to hide or find eggs anymore my brother or sister or I would try to get our grandmother to entertain us by removing her false teeth and smiling.  You would have had to see it to appreciate it! 

Those days are long gone and now I have children of my own, if a fifteen and a thirteen year old count.  Plastic eggs are all the rage and Wal-Mart has thousands of baskets at low, low prices; but they still don’t compare to my basket of yesteryear and the wonderful childhood my parents gave me.  The clip-on tie has been replaced and I no longer dread Sunday’s at church.  And this coming Easter Sunday, I will be particularly thankful that my Jesus died so that a southern bumpkin like me would get to see the pearly gates and the grandparents (and mother) that so wonderfully decorated his life.