‘There’s something rotten in the State of Illinois’
It rained this Easter. Which wasn’t really a problem, not for me anyway, since I don’t have any little kids to take on an Easter Egg Hunt. (More’s the pity.)
But I remember very well, being the Oldest Kid and all, what happened one time when it rained on our, er, Easter Parade.
But first, a word about Easter.
My family was Lutheran. Which is sort of like being Catholic, but stripped-down and rather basic — kind of like the black-wall tire of religions, or like being the Catholic B-Team. We were jealous of our cousins who were Catholic and enjoyed the full-on religious package; they got to have First Communion and wear fancy dresses and patent leather mary janes and hats with (gasp) veils and get sprinkled with Holy Water. They even got to kneel. (When you’re seven, you think kneeling is incredibly cool.)
But even we Lutherans got to go all out for Easter, with new clothes and everything. My Mom usually made the more spectacular outfits. I’m pretty sure she made the dress I’m wearing in the picture at the top of this post. I know she made my brothers’ little suits.
And of course we went to Easter Services. I remember that even we Lutherans had some pretty good hymns on Easter. Big loud joyful ones you could really belt. (“Christ the Lord is risen to-daaaay…ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh-lay-yay-ooo-ooo-ya!”) As opposed to our usual minor-key dirges with nine zillion verses droned dutifully through on regular Sunday-Go-To-Meetin’ occasions. (I found out much later, after I married The Dude, that Methodists have the Best Easter Hymns Of All Time. Every Easter for years The Child and I would go to services with Aunt Eleanor and sing our little lungs out in her Methodist Church — continuing to sing on the drive home, belting away with the sunroof wide open.)
But the best part of Easter (well, maybe after the Easter Basket) was the Easter Egg Hunt. A word about Easter Baskets. If I’d showed up at my mother’s house for Easter this year (or any year), I’d have found an Easter Basket by the side of my bed on Easter morning, big honkin’ chocolate bunny and all. That’s just how my mom rolls, Easter-wise.
As the Oldest Kid, I don’t remember hunting for the eggs as much as I remember decorating — and hiding them. We decorated eggs by dying hard-boiled eggs with food coloring. I mention this because I don’t think people do this that much anymore in this time of putting-candy-inside-two-plastic-egg-halves. Which I think is fine; I’m not getting that old and crabby.
But there was something to be said about doing the dying thing. You’d learn, say, that if you put an egg in the blue dye first, then the yellow, you’d get a green egg. Or a blue plus a red gave you purple. (You’d also learn that if you put that purple egg into the yellow you’d get a nasty indescribable color. But no worries; Dad would eat it anyway.)
If it was nice out, we Older Kids would hide the eggs outside. Then, after Church, but before Easter dinner (which invariably featured ham — my Mom hating lamb, thinking it smelled like “hot wet sweaters”) we’d direct the hunt for our littler siblings. (“You’re getting warm…you’re getting cold…now you’re warm again…hot…you’re boiling hot!”) They’d find the egg, put it into their now-emptied-of-chocolate-treats baskets — and beam.
But did we eat those Easter Eggs? No way. It’s not that we didn’t like hard-boiled eggs. (Well, actually, we didn’t like them much.) It was more that, when you peel a home-dyed egg, the whites tend to be the same color as the shell. And, while we weren’t inordinately picky children, eating a purple egg just didn’t, well, appeal. So we’d feed the eggs to Dad. He’d be lying on the couch watching golf on TV, waiting for us to get done with the hunt so he could eat his ham, when he’d whip off that shell in one practiced move and pop that whole egg, purple parts and all, into his mouth.
And if it rained on Easter Sunday? No problemo. We just moved the Hunt indoors. Our house, being a rather large and messy one (there were seven people living there, remember) had plenty of good hiding places. Perhaps too good. I distinctly recall one memorable rainy Easter when the hunt had been particularly enjoyable. Many eggs hidden; many eggs found — and our Dad almost too stuffed with Hunt Bounty to do justice to his Easter Ham.
But, for weeks afterward, we’d walk into the living room and go “What’s that smell?” (In a house with a Dad and three Brothers, my Mom and Sister and I had our suspicions.) But eventually, as the smell got worse and worse (“Gosh, it smells just like rotten eggs in here!”) we found the problem: a gaily colored, highly scented, weeks-old Easter egg, hidden just a bit too well under one of the couch cushions. Needless to say, even Dad wouldn’t eat that one.
Here’s hoping you had a highly-enjoyable and non-stinky Easter. See you next week, even if it rains.
New York City. April 2019