Easter. “Eater” with a full stomach, the inevitable outcome on any
day replete with decorated eggs, chocolate bunnies, ham, lamb, brisket
for the polydenominational and, for the faithful, whatever they have
given up for Lent.
I grew up in a very faithful household—my father was an
Episcopal priest and I was devoutly devout, an altar boy from age six
and happy for it. The church, near San Diego and which held about 250
souls, was built over a two-year period of volunteer labor by the
parishioners, who did everything except the plastering and electrical
work. The labor was hard and sweaty, and in honor of all that sweat, my
father put an empty beer can in the trench for the foundation. He
didn’t put in a full can, he said with a twinkle in his eyes, “because
I thought the Good Lord would object to the waste.” The church was an
extension of our home, or vice versa—literally (the rectory was about
20 feet away), and figuratively (my mother, father and I folded several
hundred palm crosses every year, with enough extra to be saved and
burned for use on Ash Wednesday the next year).
When Easter
rolled around, my mother boiled up a dozen eggs, which were dipped into
various hues, and I hunted for them with gusto. The problem was, one or
two hardboiled eggs of any color are enough to eat at one time; they
soon are like sawdust in the mouth, and although they quickly grew
boring, my parents were Depression-era folks and nothing went to waste.