I cone from a mixed marriage.
My mother is Methodist, my father while still alive, was a Catholic. They married in 1950 when such “doins” weren’t readily accepted, by either side. They had to go through two ceremonies: a small, intimate service in the Catholic Church, then a much larger, more formal service with all the matrimonial trimmings in the Methodist church. My mother wore a pale green dress, long and formal, but pale green. I often wondered why that was the case. When I’d go to friends’ houses, I’d see their patents’ wedding photos and their moms would be all decked out in white.
Actually, that’s not entirely true, now that I think about it. I fondly remember one early childhood friend who is only a month younger than me. She turned eight, a week after her patents celebrated their seventh wedding anniversary.
My, that had to have been one exhausted stork!!!
No wonder. In the late 50’s, an amazing number of storks consistently delivered eight to nine pound babies which if you based age on wedding dates, these infants were each born three to five months premature!?!?
Anyway, my mother tried her best to be a mother and wife to her Catholic charges but it couldn’t have been easy. The first six years of my life were pre-Vatican II, when Catholicism was more rigid and formal. Masses were celebrated in Latin, we couldn’t eat meat on Fridays and females couldn’t enter the church with a bare head. (EDITOR’S NOTE: I remember going with my paternal grandmother to run an errand at the church. She had no proper head covering with her so she grabbed a hymnal, opened it in half, did the same to me and we headed on down the aisle) Back then, the nuns had far more reasons to instill a fear of spending eternity in Hell. Trust me, their version was ten-to-20 times worse than anything Milton could conceive.
Sometimes, I think the a Vatican III must be entertained……soon.
You see, Easter was never one of my favorite holidays. For starters, it’s fallen on or very close to my April birthday, which took all the methane out of it. So, when my neighbor, a one Susan R. felt compelled to tell me that Santa and the entire childhood cabal of immortal gift-givers was nothing but the handiwork of my very mortal parents, I was livid. But as a child with extraordinary wit and reasoning skills, the anger was short-lived, really. I never understood the so called physics behind Santa’s flying sleigh, the reindeer that propelled it simply by moving their legs back and forth (not to mention the lead buck…the one with an electrified red nose) AND I never met a rabbit that had enough dexterity in its front paws, making them suitable for basket holding/and or colored egg delivery one Sunday each Spring. .
When I confronted my mother about her ruse, she seemed relieved that the jig was up. No more having to play a sleep-deprived Santa Claus who spent most of the wee hours every Christmas morning putting together bikes, drum sets and Dr. Beaker, Jr. Mad Scientist Kits. I was a strange child with a natural penchant for making WMD quality stink bombs and Kool-Aid and baking soda volcanoes. I used Little Kiddles, Troll dolls and plastic army men to recreate the last hours of most of the citizenry of Pompeii and Herculaneum, as Vesuvius erupted circa 79 A.D.
A college friend once told me that her very tired, impatient and slightly inebriated father grew tired of the tedium of putting her bike together after attending several hours at neighborhood Christmas Eve Open House Parties and in a fit of frustration, threw the unfinished project into the front yard. The bike chain and one pedal landed in the snow, about two feet away. On Christmas morning her mother took her to the window and pointed toward a semi-snow covered pile of metal and rubber to show her that Santa had every intention of bringing her the bike she wanted, but upon arrival at her house, Rudolph and company hit an air pocket, there was a cargo shift and her bike didn’t survive—it fell out. Santa left her an IOU, promising to bring her another one in a few days. She said she bought it at first, but when the same thing happened to her Kenner Easy Bake Oven the following Christmas, she knew something was up.
Like everyone is or should be, I’ll be isolo tomorrow, watching a virtual Easter service taking place in some empty house of worship somewhere and I’ll do it while still in my Easter caftan that I’ve had on since it was my New Year’s Day caftan, and I’ll wish the Christian world a happy Easter (every one else, here’s to Sunday). It’ll be from my tastefully appointed boudoir, or as I call it, “the lonely place’. For Easter brunch, I’ll enjoy the spécialité de la maison, a savory continental fave called “Whatever Iss Een Le Freezer Zat Iss Close or Just Pas à Date d’expiration”. I’ve prepared it many, many times before and have remained relatively diarrhea free since 1981.
And please remember the following on this particular Easter weekend: it might be called “social distancing’, but no matter how you look at it, you”re still alone. But this time around, fight the urge to rectify that and stay put. It’s not a good idea to even contemplate going out or mixin’ it up with 11 or more people. That’s not taking one for/or with the team. That’s extremely risky behavior this holiday. So, find ways to battle the throes of cabin fever by sleeping in different rooms. Eat al fresco, weather permitting. Have a picnic and introduce your butt to a rarely visited part of your yard. Mix it up. Just remember to your hands, moisturize said paws and please, stay home or face the wrath of that famed Peace Officer, Slightly North of The Pecos: Marshall Law.
Stay healthy. Everyone’s life depends on it.
