Long Ago Easters

Those long ago Easters of childhood, seem so long ago, they have gained a mythic patina.

Good Friday was a day of black and navy blue.  A Last Supper with wine and bread was sacred, even to my tea totalling grandmother. There was hiding in gardens, betrayal for money. One person was guilty, a people were guilty, and they tried to convince me, my little self was guilty. This was all happening for my sake. A day of graves and tombs and stones and blood and tears. Bodies crucified. A body washed by women. Sweet smells of fragrant oils. I don't quite remember how vinegar fit in, but most things that my mother was involved with involved vinegar. In our house it was also the day of hot crossed buns.

Saturday things were different. There were eggs to be boiled or blown, then coloured, construction paper tulips, daffodils, and lilies to be made.  Extended family seemed to extend even farther. Adult talk was preoccupied with scalloped potatoes, ham to be picked up, pickles and olives. The house filled with flowers, especially Easter Lilies, though both my parents maintained they hated them. Personally I was drawn to the bright orange stamens whose pollen could stain almost anything temporarily, especially fingers. The day ended with an extra long Saturday night bath.

The fuss about clothing was over. Because Easter was at the end of a ten day school holiday, the trip to Eatons, in the city, had already taken place. New good shoes, new spring coat, new white socks, new white cotton underwear and white gloves. Grandma spent much time fussing about sewing matching dresses, for my cousin and me. My cousin's dress would be of a delicate hue. Mine, in the same style, was more likely a deep green or substantial rust, as I was prone to spilling. To top it all off, both figuratively and in reality was an Easter bonnet with an elastic string to keep it from slipping or being blowing off.

Year after year, the little boys had the same grey short pants, grey wool knee socks, brown polished oxfords, white shirts with plaid ties and a blue blazer with brass buttons.

Easter morning was what all the excitement was about. Brightly coloured baskets filled with green raffia, waited to be filled with candy the Easter Bunny had left. There was always a large creamed egg with a yellow centre, covered in chocolate. Laura Secord helped the bunny with these specific eggs. The smaller candy varied from year to year - jelly beans for sure, sometimes harder candy eggs that were a challenge for little teeth. They tasted of sugar and food dye. Sometimes the bunny left a hollow chocolate, bunny in a box, or a fancifully decorated chocolate egg with pink roses. These eggs were personally inscribed with our names, and protected with cellophane tied with a ribbon. One year, the bunny left me a small china   teacup, another year there were coloured real rabbits' feet  for luck sometimes stuffed real baby chicks with metal legs. The stuffed chicks and ducks were alarming. Each year  we stopped in front of a florists shop to watch the small ducklings swim in a small pond or play on a bridge displayed in the window. The most confusing gift of all was the large basket of candy from the retired dentist up the street. Dentists and candy didn't seem to go together.

Easter morning was an itchy event; too much candy, stiff unfamiliar clothing and the constant reminders to take it easy in my finery. Worst of all was the pinching elastic under the chin belonging to the uncomfortable Easter Bonnet.

The public Easter Morning was a communal affair. As we walked down street towards the United Church, we were joined by the dwellers of the houses we passed. Even the folks that were not churchy turned up at church Easter Sunday. Everyone seemed to be headed towards our church, except the family next door. They were exotic. Their Easter preparations involved filling a small cardboard church with pennies throughout Lent. What is more the children had to give up  a favourite activity for the forty days. They were Anglican. The Anglicans and Presbyterians provided the village's diversity.

Our church was filled with flowers. The choir expanded to twice its size. All the pews were filled with others in their Easter best. The front row of the balcony gave me a splendid view of all going on down below. I could have watched forever.  I played with the bright, shiny dime, my collection, that was carried in my white glove. Someone inevitably took it from my hand, for fear it would drop from my hand onto a bald head below.

The congregation rose as one for the singing of the Hallelujah  Chorus in honour of Queen Victoria, who had done just that same thing. Then we were off to Sunday School to colour pictures of Easter Lilies, while the adults carried on with adult worship.

What an array of images- eggs, bunnies, death, wine, disliked lilies, food galore, new clothes, boxes of money, crosses on buns and crosses on hills and on and on and on.

No wonder it was hard to figure it all out. No wonder it all seems difficult to figure out today.