Easter is fast approaching and with it returns snatches, bits, and pieces of childhood memories.
As a child, it was a day to eat chocolate before breakfast and dress up in new Easter outfits. It was celebrated in a secular fashion; my parents didn’t attend any type of organized religion. They did, however, send us to Sunday school. That’s where I learned the Lord’s Prayer, memorized the order of the books of the Bible, learned about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus as told in the King James Bible and practiced sitting like a lady and keeping my white gloves clean. A solid foundation.
Anyway, Ma, aka the Easter Bunny, would always hide the Easter baskets where a small person could find them and after exploring its contents and eating “one small piece of chocolate,” we’d dress up.
Those where the days before my brother was born so it was just me and my older sister donning new duds. There we stand, forever frozen in black and white, standing stiffly across the street from our house posing in front of a mound of dirty snow. A big mound, a colossal mound compared to our global warming, no snow winters or springs of today. I remember how cold it was standing there waiting for the shutter to open and close in the Brownie Box camera pointed in our direction.
I worried about getting my new shoes and lace trimmed socks wet. I thought I looked so grand in those shoes even though they pinched and poked at my chubby little feet. None of the new clothing was comfortable, I realized upon much belated reflection. The crunchy slip that pushed the skirt of my new dress out from my freezing legs was very scratchy. It also exposed a lot of leg like a Shirley Temple costume without the music playing in the background (I was probably tap-dancing in my imagination. I loved Shirley).
Ma. Now as I think about her, I’m amazed that she was able to function at all. Back then, all I knew as a needy child was my neediness, especially for being physically close to my mother. But she must have unwittingly fostered that need. My parents had suffered the agony of losing a child only a few weeks old, a child born before me. Ma would later tell me that doctors had advised her to have another child. I was that child.
They carried on in true post-WWII style. Ma put Easter Baskets out in the spring, decorated Christmas trees in December, made cakes and celebrated birthdays. They, she, got on with living.
No, there wasn’t any Easter day church service attendance for us, but there was a sort of deep sentiment pulling us all together on special days, days I’m sure were very reverential for my parents as they coped with grief neither fully recovered from.
Although my mother had a sister and brother close by, within easy walking distance, with many cousins around our ages, we didn’t share in a family meal or even a visit. I don’t know how we spent the day, but I do recall a traditional meal of baked ham, mashed potatoes, and peas. Assuredly, there was a pie or two from the Cushman Baker.
At school, as we counted down the days to Easter weekend, we were given mimeographed coloring pages. Fresh from the mimeograph machine, we deeply inhale the chemicals emanating from the paper. We were in ecstasy.
The pages were pictures of fluffy bunnies and ducks, floral wrapped crucifixes and eggs waiting for our artistic efforts. I was the type of colorist who outlined all the images in a corresponding color before filling in the images while trying to control a fat crayon with no point on the end (or, maybe we were high from the poison laced coloring pages).
On good Friday, long before it was a day off from school, we gathered up all our artwork and brought them home for display on refrigerators across town. I was very proud of my coloring talent. Decades later, Ma would keep coloring books and crayons at the ready just in case a great-grandchild came to visit. Coloring must be in our blood.
Easter hails new beginnings, the emergence of new life, spring blooms everywhere. For me, it is a time when I remember snuggling up to my mother for warmth and comfort. With her ample arm wrapped around my narrow shoulders, all was well with my soul. I hope during those brief moments she found peace and comfort too.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell