Easter And The Little People

It is going to be a cool Easter in Chicago. There are flowering shrubs dotted here and there, but no leaves yet on the trees. I understand that dogwood blossoms have been sighted in Alabama and the huge pear tree behind my home there is now in full bloom.

My grandson in Dallas – the three-year old – asked me, in a recent telephone chat, if I had an Easter basket. I told him no, but added, foolishly, that I do have some hand-decorated eggs from the Ukraine.

“Me crane?” He responded.

“No, the Ukraine.”

“I crane?” he questioned, attempting to add more clarity than the adult in the conversation.

In obvious frustration with an old man mired in useless detail, he switched the subject to the joy of eating green grapes. He said he would ask his Dad if I could come over and eat green grapes with him. His sister, only 15 months younger, informed me that she was also eating grapes. That was just after she asked, “What up, Grandmon?”

The youngest of the Little People is about to be 2 years old in late May. She lives in Florida. She is good at singing to me on the phone, but not so happy with general conversation. She has become a great “reader.” She spends long periods of time with her favorite book, speaking in her “special reading language” with the occasional recognizable “George.” (Curious George is her favorite.)

As I have attempted to talk with them by phone this week, I am reminded of Easter as a child. My most distinct memory is the smell of vinegar. In my day, the packets of dye for eggs – purchased at Woolworth’s – required vinegar to bond the color to the shell of the boiled egg. It was a ritual that happened after lunch on Saturday before the big day. For the rest of the afternoon, the smell of vinegar permeated the room. I miss that.

There were also white gloves drying somewhere about. These were a staple for the females at Easter. And there was the new hat.

My mother, in the years before the hair became purple and was never covered, enjoyed a new hat at Easter. This was usually purchased with some thought from the Marble City. I remember Old Mr. Coker’s wife being the sales person. She always wore her hair in a neat bun nestled low on her neck in the back. She seemed to know my Mother’s likes and dislikes in hats.

The hats were usually of some proportion as to cast a shadow on her face. Most Easter's were very bright. (It was only after living in Chicago that I was not surprised at all by a blanket of snow.) When Mrs. Kennedy and Oleg made the pillbox hat a hit, Mother tried that, but was never as pleased. She liked the big brims.

My paternal grandfather visited us from Mississippi one Easter. As we were preparing to leave for church, he said, upon encountering my Mother, “either that hat stays home today, or I will.” He never mentioned how he spent his Easter morning. He attempted pleasantness before lunch. He was a big fan of Mother's biscuits.

But back to the little ones.

The middle one of the Little People – the redhead – shares her great grandmother’s love of hats. Her taste is rather more catholic however.

It will not surprise me if I hear a report that instead of wearing her new yellow straw hat with the white ribbons, she opts for her favorite – the plastic strainer from the kitchen. It is her “chum bucket.” To understand her thinking, you need to know about SpongeBob and the little people under the sea.

Happy Easter!