I have fond childhood memories of Easter.
I remember my mother putting me in an eyelet dress with a pilgrim collar, frilly socks and shiny shoes and topping me off with a white satin bow the size of a satellite dish. I remember posing with my Easter basket next to the Bradford Pear tree in the front yard. I remember shivering because a damn cold front always blew through the night before Easter and caused the spring temperature to plummet to that of winter in Iceland.
I’d sit with my family on our usual church pew as my mother, the pianist, played inspirational melodies- songs about resurrection, forgiveness and joy- songs that drowned out the sound of my great uncle’s thick, whistling nose hairs.
I’d gnaw on baked ham and mashed potatoes and warm dinner rolls at my grandmother’s dining table while the grown-ups talked about the lovely church service and how Sister Betty had gained 43 pounds since her divorce.
Gassy from the mass amount of chocolate pie that I’d eaten after the mass amount of mashed potatoes, I would burp and scamper through the back yard for plastic egg packages containing high-fructose corn syrup and marshmallow crème
Easter was good.
Easter was also good for my mother- a joyful time when we and laughed and remembered all that we had to be thankful for- but it was also a time of stress and mini-spazzes for my mama. And now that I’m a mother, I understand those spazzes.
May you have a wonderfully blessed Easter.
And may your spazzing be at a minimum.