Easter

My childhood Easters were spent in Maryland with my six cousins. My sister and I were the youngest of the lot, and we relished being with them since they provided us with a peak into the fascinating world of teenagers. I marveled at the Shaun Cassidy posters on the wall of my cousin’s room and always stole a squirt of her Love’s Baby Soft cologne any chance I got. We’d hop on the handlebars of their bikes for rides around the neighborhood stopping at a large honeysuckle bush where our cousins taught us how to open the blossoms and slurp up the nectar they held inside. We graduated from their handlebars to traversing the town in cars as they got their licenses one by one. The first time I hopped in the car with my oldest cousin David sans “adults,” I tasted the heavenly independence from my parents, and my yearning for autonomy was set into motion. Their boyfriends and girlfriends came and went along with many episodes of teenage angst which my mother explained as, “She’s going through a phase.”

Holy Saturday night meant dyeing four dozen hard-boiled eggs at the big round dining room table. Little bowls containing the colored pellets sizzled in the pungent white vinegar before the water was poured into them. We practically used the whole wax crayon marking the eggs with the names of everyone coming to Easter dinner the next day, and we even dyed eggs for those who couldn’t make it that year. As was tradition, my sister, youngest cousin Maria and myself grabbed one raw egg from the refrigerator to dye and place in the mix. We did not chose the unfortunate recipient out of cruelty, but fun. My cousin David, usually the victim, spun his egg on the table the next day assured that an uncooked egg moved differently than a hard-boiled one. He’d inevitably end up cracking it after we swore to God that his egg had been cooked. Then we laughed hysterically as the slimy gooey inside covered his hands and he began the process of cleaning up the mess. Looking back, I’m sure he knew his egg never saw rapidly boiling water, but he went along with the fun anyway since my sister and myself adored being with them at Easter.  

I often wonder what stories my boys will remember from their childhood. I wonder what traditions they will carry on with their children and what new ones they will create.

Have a very Happy Easter.