This Easter looks to be a better one than the past, though fellow old timers have a way of reminding me that Mother Nature is, if nothing else, deceptive.
The sun is shining, it is warm on the front walk and the crocus is peeping forth, even knowing there might be snow.
So it was in my sixth year. All was beautiful as I went with my mom and aunt to buy my Easter outfit.
Patent leather shoes, check. Frilly bonnet, check. Dress with lacy puffed sleeves and frilly skirt, check. New wool coat? Wait a minute.
My aunt put a pair of kiddie overshoes on the counter.
“Well, if we’re lucky and it doesn’t snow, we can bring them back,” she said, smiling.
And the coat? No such luck. “If we are going to the sunrise service, the mornings are still a little chilly.”
The Saturday before Easter was a day of fun. The rigors of Lent left with Good Friday and we were allowed to do whatever we had given up doing.
I ate chocolate.
Grandma boiled dozens of eggs and we dissolved little color pellets in vinegar water so they could be dyed.
It was fun and the ones we broke made great deviled eggs.
Easter Sunday afternoon, the veterans had egg hunts in Cole Park and we went. When I say, “we,” I include my uncle almost exactly three years older than myself, a cousin who was just a bit older than that and my youngest aunt, who was almost too old to hunt.
And, yes, it snowed. Not too much, but enough to make the egg colors run. It was Madras when Madras wasn’t cool.
My coat became the coat of many colors.
The new shoes were a bit scuffed, but the joy was real. As we counted out our eggs, my mom read the Easter story from a Little Golden Book while my aunt poo-poohed it all.
As I write this, I am filled with nostalgia. I have been sorting things that had been in boxes for years and found some photos of my granddaughters coloring eggs. I have to hide them, since the 18-year-old and 16-year-old were topless. The grandson wasn’t here, yet and Sara, who will graduate this year, is afraid I will send one to the school paper.
Moi? Gosh, I didn’t find them in time.
Last year, I asked the trio who are proof of my immortality if they wanted to color eggs and they looked at me as if I were crazy. Whatever they do, it appears it will be on hand-held devices.
I have a friend from college whose family doesn’t do much for Easter, either, but he colors some on his own. Sounds good.
The Little Golden Book is long gone and I will tell the Easter story from my memory, as best I can.
Once there was a man who died for our sins and then rose from the dead to set a path for all of us to follow.
Either that, or I will tell them it’s on You Tube.
Life changes each day and we can’t bring back the past, while tomorrow is something yet to come. It may or may not snow on Easter, but the story remains.