Easter Traditions

 



Growing up in our family meant that nothing was 'given'.  You worked for what you wanted.  I don't mean that in a harsh way - it was just how things used to be.  You had a meager allowance that was earned by completing a list of weekly chores.  I remember lusting mightily after an English Black Racer bicycle.  I loathed my little girlie bike, with it's fat tires and two-toned turquoise paint.  Even the playing cards clothes-pinned to my spokes and streamers trailing out of the handle bars could not make me love it.   In order to have my new bike, I needed to earn at least half of it, so I edged lawns, swept, washed, raked, toted, schlepped and did whatever I had to do to earn my half.  It was worth it - I loved that bike to pieces for years - until I ran it into a tree.

Working for what we wanted also stretched into holidays and vacations.  Want your Easter eggs?  Well, here are the clues and good luck to you!  This continued well into adulthood.  As the clues portrayed here (my dad's last effort) showed, you had better be on your toes.  That meant knowing your Ottoman Empire (egg hidden under a corresponding piece of living room furniture).   As either of my sisters would tell you, I was not a patient child.  Nor a patient teenager.  Nor a patient adult.  I'm still working on it.

One of the high points of our summer vacations was the Treasure Hunt up at the Canadian cabin.  Well, it was the high point until I put myself in charge.  By the time we found our treasure (at its apex, my parents hid it on a deserted island in the middle of the lake), I had hounded and harassed my poor sisters to the point of tears.  There are many victory photographs where we all looked miserable.  I was such a pain.

My parents did, however, quit hiding my birthday presents after my 21st birthday.  They had bought me a brand new Singer sewing machine and hid it in the trunk of their car.  After following a devilishly challenging trail of clues, I reached the car (outside) and the trunk lock was frozen (January).  My father intervened when I went for the tire iron.  I was such a pain for many years.

Now, I hope, we can pass the wonderful (choke) Easter tradition on to the next generation.  Where, I might add, the brain cells and level of patience seem to have risen to the top (speaking totally of myself).  My nephew's girlfriend, the lovely Sabrina, sashayed into our Easter tradition like a swan gliding on a lake.  Having never met us or set foot in the house, she found every last, stinking one of her eggs within moments.