Member-only story
Easter Memoir
What Easter Meant Then, and What it Means to Me Now
White gloves, chocolate bunnies, an unexpected path to spiritual healing
Sunday mornings meant seeing Dad in his skivvies, smoking Chesterfield cigarettes, drinking black coffee. It promised the smell of bacon and maple syrup or, on occasion, fresh donuts from the local bakery. We were allowed to stay in our pajamas, watching Rocky and Bullwinkle, playing Canasta on the floor with my brother — as long as we didn’t fight.
However, when Easter Sunday arrived, normal expectations were forsaken. Roused from our beds early, we were instructed to dress in the clothes that had been pressed and neatly placed on chairs beside our beds.
My two sisters and I usually had matching pastel dresses with ruffles and lace, all hand-sewn by Mom. After a quick breakfast, we’d wash our faces, detangle our home-permanent curls, slip into white anklets, shiny black Mary Janes. The hats, referred to as Easter bonnets, were placed on our heads just before walking out the…
