This offering is a blog reprint from a few years ago, but the message is timeless, so Happy Easter to all.
Much as is the case with Christmas traditions like trees and mistletoe, Easter eggs represent a little bit of paganism tacked on to a Christian ritual. Eggs representing spring, rebirth and all that stuff became intertwined with the tale of the Crucifixion and Resurrection, which is, to the believer, another form of birth. Ta-da. There, aren’t you happy you know that?
So, some random thoughts on Easter that will lead in no particular direction.
I remember being decked out in dorky little bowtie, and even dorkier little blazer so I could accompany my parents to church on Easter morning. It was one of those things children of an earlier era were compelled to do at Easter and Christmas before they were entitled to get to the good stuff. Presents at Christmas, and chocolate eggs at Easter. Little boys and little girls — with pretty hats, clutching tiny plastic purses — dragged off to pay homage to “What Easter really means,” in my mother’s words.
“It would make me vomit, to see your Easter bonnet,” sang my brother, before being chastised for vulgarity by my mother who was attempting to stifle a grin while trying to appear stern.
About two days before Easter my mother would put on a large cooking pot and fill it with water and the white eggs bought especially for the occasion. Easter egg coloring was a wonderful time as we gathered around the kitchen table attempting to create multi-hued ovoids that, while falling far short of Faberge splendors, nevertheless satisfied us and looked fabulous when put into a wicker basket and nestled into straw. I wonder if I would still enjoy doing that? Ultimately the rainbow hued eggs were to end up as blue, green or red-tinted egg salad for school lunch sandwiches.
Easter baskets of my recall contained entirely too many jellybeans and not enough chocolate and marshmallow. We also hope for a considerable array of fluffy baby chicks in the purple and yellow baskets. My brother and I, once we had consumed all the chocolate and some of the jelly beans, would then have cock-fights with our chicks. Mine won always since I was older, and my brother would end up in tears since the little beaks were very poorly secured and would end up being amputated around the same time the little black eyes were gouged out. My father would invariably promise to glue the ravaged bits back on, but I don’t recall him ever getting around to it.
Ultimately, Easter ended up being a little disappointing. The largesse wasn’t as impressive as the Christmas haul. And, once you had done the basket thing and the church thing, what were you to do with the rest of the day? Easter dinner was kind of a disappointment, too. My mother always did ham. I didn’t like ham when I was younger. It didn’t seem as festive as turkey. Now I prefer ham, which is a comment apropos of nothing, really.
So, in fear of drivelling on relentlessly, I will simply wish all and sundry a happy Easter.