Eggs, Easter and family traditions: Cracking open favorite memories of spring holidays together with my loved ones
It was a quiet moment with Mom, and one that remains dear to me. We were making decisions on where to hide Easter eggs.
I was in my early teens, and my sisters Julie and Mary were counting on searching for and finding eggs the next morning. After everyone had gone to bed, Mom and I sat in the living room, and plotted hiding locations.
Behind the grandfather clock. Under the couch. Beneath curtains.
With her guidance and approval, I took several eggs we had boiled and colored earlier that day and lodged them in spots where they could not be detected without a bit of effort.
It was a small thing, but it was a step toward adulthood. I was now an egg-hider, not an egg-hunter. It happened around the same time Mom informed me, in her usual quiet but firm, this-will-not-be-debated way, that I was done going trick-or-treating.
Easter floods me with memories of home, as do all holidays, I guess. The older I get — and I hope to continue that trend for quite some time — the more I vividly recall moments like that.
Easter for our family, like millions of others, was shaped by traditions. The girls got new dresses and shoes. My brother Vern and I usually got new shirts, either yellow or light blue. I clearly recall we received matching yellow shirts with blue pinstripes one year.
Church was a big part of the day. Dad attended sunrise services almost every year, starting at First Lutheran Church in Brookings and, after we moved to the farm in 1966, at Trinity Lutheran Church in Estelline.
I don’t think I ever made that, both because of my reluctance to be up at such an early hour, and later because I would milk the cows so Dad, who served as a church elder and deacon over the years, could be at church.
Dinner, as we called the midday meal, was almost always ham. It is the traditional food for many families, and Mom adhered to that over the years. She may have served chicken or a roast once or twice, but in my memory, there’s a ham at the center of the table and a crowd of hungry, laughing, talking Lawrences packed around it.
One year, I think it was 1967, we didn’t have dinner at home. Dad was determined to take us to the Pheasant Restaurant in Brookings. That was a big deal, since the Pheasant was and is a local landmark.
Nature threw us a curve that year, however. The spring thaw left roads caked in mud. Dad parked the car about a block or more from the house on a dry stretch of the gravel road that passed by our place.
He was determined to take his family out that year. So, we were all dressed up and ready to go. He pulled a tractor around, with a cleaned-out manure spreader hitched behind. We carefully climbed aboard, dressed in our Easter finery, and he drove through the rough, rutted road to the car.
We were off to Brookings and the Pheasant. I don’t remember the meal — I bet we had ham — but I do recall the ornate decor and lush carpet at the restaurant. It was a rare event for our family to dine at such a place and it sticks in my memory.
Over the six decades since then, I have marked Easter in a variety of ways, attending a church service at times, and in many other years, sleeping in that Sunday and just watching a ballgame on TV or going to softball practice.
Being single and disconnected from family due to distance, holiday traditions fade. I stayed busy and didn’t let it bother me, much anyway. But reconnecting to the past and reviving those memories has been a pleasant experience.
I have colored eggs several times. I have officially served as a helper or mentor to young people who are learning the secrets of egg design, but the truth is, I still love to see the colors emerge. I try to create a unique and memorable pattern, but a few dips into various colors and my egg resembles a muddy rock.
My sister Anita and I tried to color eggs many times over the years, and neither of us had a lot of success. Our sister Mary is much more artistic when it comes to egg design.
Maybe this year I will find the proper balance of blue, green and red. It’s worth a try, and sure to build a memory to hold onto for next Easter.
Fourth-generation South Dakotan Tom Lawrence has written for several newspapers and websites in South Dakota and other states for four decades. He has contributed to The New York Times, NPR, The London Telegraph, The Daily Beast and other media outlets. Do not republish without permission.
Photo: public domain, wikimedia commons
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