Back before fake Easter eggs came in plastic with every color of the rainbow, filled with gumdrops and Cadbury chocolates wrapped in designer tin foil; there lived in my world kids with real problems. Problems that started weeks prior to the Sunday that was spent at church hearing the story about the crucifixion and resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Starting in early March, plans were being carried out for this great day by Mama and her Singer sewing machine. She sat foot peddling that miracle of every household filled with little girls needing new Easter dresses. Bowabs in Atmore sold dotted swiss fabric in pink, blue, yellow and white. Mama bought yards of blue and pink along with cards of lace, rick rack, and Mother of Pearl buttons. Butterrick patterns were borrowed and passed around between the ladies in the community, dresses were cut and sewn. We got fitted with new "padding leathers" and white silky socks that were instantly swallowed into the toe of those hot shoes. Feet sweated, heels developed water blisters before Sunday School was finished. Brothers got new shirts and khaki britches. Boys just aren't as important as girls when it comes to "prettying up."
Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!!
Those cardboard shoe boxes were kept safe from damage as they were used for Easter baskets. We made paste by mixing flour, salt and water to smear on our cutouts of pretty flowers found in magazines. Progressive Farmer magazine showed us how to make do with less. We cut, pasted and colored. We made sturdy handles to attach for carrying our beautiful baskets of eggs--if we were lucky to find many.
Mama hung our finished dresses on a nail high up on the wall in our bedroom. I looked at those beautiful dresses and dreamed of wearing mine to school on the Monday after Easter Sunday. I would show my beautiful side one way or the other. The other side usually won out…heavy wearing showed a sash hanging, a hem ripped out half way around, banana pudding smeared down the front, a collar self-chewed, unknown stains of green. But mercy I had enjoyed myself playing with town cousins back at our house after Church, hiding eggs over and over in the pasture grown flush with red topped clover and saw briers. "Padding leathers" were thrown way back underneath the bed. I have never been a fan of shoes.
We collected eggs and kept them in a special box. Mama had made a soft bed for egg holding by using crumpled newspaper. We needed at least six dozen eggs. Our school allowed our classes to have parties and egg hunts on the playground. We worried not about offending anyone. Political correctness hadn't made it to the Barnett Crossroads, Alabama. Compassion, manners, honoring our parents, family and friends came just after, "To God be the Glory."
Our free-range chickens were watched closely to see where they may have hidden nests that were intended for setting/hatching spring chicks. Not if we found it. We ate eggs every day for breakfast and used some in other cooking; but we collected and saved as many as possible for Easter egg hunting. Actually, those eggs were hunted twice; once to locate them in the henhouse, in the barn loft, in the woodpile, or underneath the house in dust holes. Smith kids were vigilant egg hunters.
Then,
Good Friday was party time at school. Everybody was jittery, everybody had colored eggs in homemade shoebox Easter baskets. A few anointed ones showed with store bought baskets filled with cellophane straw in colors of Crayola. Looking back, I feel blessed to have had a homemade shoebox Easter basket. I can close my eyes and still have a vivid memory of those hard to come by creations. Who among us can remember what a store bought basket from Elmore's looked like?
See what I'm getting at?
We learned to do with what we had, we learned to be creative. We learned patience. We learned a cracked egg was just a cracked egg. Tasted all the same without the shell. School Easter parties gave us cupcakes with food coloring and colored coconut straw with multicolored jelly beans nestled on top. Washed down with Dixie cups of strawberry flavored Kool-Aid, the gift of a long-worked-for celebration.
Playground egg hunts, prize egg.
Life was so good.
Saturday night before Easter Sunday was spent in all-out egg dyeing; for hunting after preaching and dinner on the ground. Banana pudding and fried chicken was my ticket to paradise. Paradise was waiting on that old wire fence table sitting under red oaks.
Mama put the Philco in the kitchen window, dialed up Clear Channel 650, WSM Grand Ole Opry. The Saturday Night Barn Dance came fiddling through with sounds of hard floor stomping by the Tennessee Cloggers. Vinegar smells and "Oops." Pretty colored eggs nestled into Mama's special holding box. Anything good has always been better if it has to be worked for and waited for.
HAPPY EASTER!
Thank You Father!
