Hiding Easter eggs (an Easter confession)

 
When I was growing up my mama made a big deal about the joy of hiding Easter eggs on Easter morning before we went to church, dressed in our Easter best, the girls in their new dresses and socks and the boys in our little Easter suits. In 1953 or 54 we had moved to our new house that my daddy and one carpenter pretty much built themselves.  Daddy had wanted more space and had been feeling crowded with neighbors on each side of us out in Tioga. Our new place was way out on Jackson Extension just past old man Peterman’s place, outside of Alexandria, Louisiana. We thought it’d be cool to get to know that old man, but all we ever saw was him sitting behind his mule all day plowing his field.  He was a mysterious man who never waved or spoke to any of us children.  We were a little afraid of him in fact, and made-up stories about him. Stories like he lived in a haunted house since it sat away from the road and the bare boards were well weathered.  There were never any lights on at night either.  We dared each other to stand on his porch for one minute in the middle of the night but were too afraid to ever try it. Daddy said he was just a lonely man who never married and lived with his sister.  We should leave him alone.  We did.

 There was a small farm on the right and a house on the left, next to old man Peterman’s place, separated by our pasture lane, but that didn’t seem to bother daddy since the yards were huge.   Our farm went from Jackson Street all the way back to Prescott Road.  We had plenty of space to roam as free-range children exploring the woods further back or roaming in daddy’s corn and cotton fields.  We seldom came home until dark and even then, played in the expansive front yard till bedtime catching lightening bugs.   

 On that Saturday before Easter 1953, Mama spent all Saturday carefully boiling and dying eggs for us to hide on Easter morning.  I was nine and in the fourth grade.  I was really feeling like this was not something I wanted to participate in anymore and protested that this was something for little kids.  I’d rather go ride my horse, I complained. Becky didn’t want a thing to do with it either.

 Mama put the guilt trip on us that Saturday night, letting us know how we really hurt her feelings since she had spent all day carefully boiling and dying eggs.  Mama loved giving guilt trips.  She went on and on about all the things she could have been doing; things that really needed to be taken care of, but she chose, instead, to gather the eggs, boil them, let them cool and then dye each of them one by one.  She told us how hot it was in the kitchen as she worked over the hot stove and that she also had to fix supper for six people, as well as put up the evening milk from our cows.

 Becky asked why she didn’t let us do the dying only to be told she didn’t have time to supervise us since she had so much work to do.  We needed to keep out of her hair. She told Becky how messy it would have been if we had done it because our younger brother and sister would have wanted to dye eggs too and they were too young, and she couldn’t handle all four of us and keep her sanity.

 Sunday morning after she took care of the morning milk from the cows, Mama said we had better hurry and hide the eggs for our brother and sister.  We complained. The guilt trip returned as she informed Becky and me that we were being bad examples for our siblings.  Bobby was five and Jane three.  We had no choice but to participate. Something that didn’t set well with either one of us since Becky was not an early morning person and a grouch.   I was, but I didn’t want to be that day.  I got on my sister’s nerves by constantly talking and teasing her as we tried to hide the eggs among the three hundred or so camellia bushes around the back yard.  We ended up yelling and screaming at each other and some of the eggs got thrown.

 Mama was fit to be tied. Trying to corral us from killing each other while keeping the little ones inside and making breakfast for daddy and bringing it to his bed with his coffee made her a nervous wreck.  Of course, she had to still make sure we had our Easter outfits ready.  Daddy wasn’t any help.  He just stayed in bed reading the morning paper and eating his breakfast.

 I was mad enough about hiding the eggs that I went and stuck one of the eggs in Mama’s Buick exhaust vents on the side of her car.  I didn’t put it all the way in, just jammed enough to stay stuck, hoping Bobby would ever find it.

 When it was time for Bobby and Jane to find the eggs, Becky took charge of Jane, and I, Bobby.

After he filled his basket, I was bored and angry, so I let him know where the eggs were that I hid, especially where that one egg was, that I was proud of hiding.  I no longer cared and wanted to hurry up and be finished.   

 While he was trying to unstick the egg, he shoved it further into the vent so that it could not be retrieved.  I was afraid to say anything.  Besides, since no one could see it, they’d never know.

 Meanwhile, Mama was yelling for us to get in the house, eat our breakfast, and get dressed for Sunday school and church.  We obeyed after the third or fourth call to get inside, and I kept my mouth shut.

 Going to church that Easter morning was like herding buffalo through a China shop, but we made it in time for frazzled Mama to teach her Sunday school class and Daddy to greet at the door.  I suppose we looked decent in our Easter outfits, but Mama failed to take a picture.

A week later, Mama started smelling something funny when she drove her car. Each day it seemed to smell worse.  It started to smell like sulfur. When she couldn’t stand the stink any longer, she took it to the garage where the mechanic discovered the rotten egg stuck in the exhaust on the side of the car.  It took a great deal of work for them to remove the egg and clean the car.  I felt very guilty and confessed to Mama that I had put the egg there, but Bobby was the one that shoved it all the way in.  The car kept that sulfur smell for quite a while after that and I was grounded until the smell went away.

NOTE:  The next Sunday, I went down during the invitation and made my profession of faith.  

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

AND THE RAINS CAME

There is nothing better than seeing children splash around a flooded street.  We received so much rain Tuesday that I was waiting for Noah to pass by.  So, my question is this.  Isn’t it supposed to be March winds and then April Showers? And aren’t the showers supposed to disburse over the entire month and not land in one lump sum?  Early Tuesday morning, just in time for school and work, the Lord drained the heavenly lake.  I'm surprised we didn't see the entire cast of water creatures come tumbling down.  Maybe one of those angelic children forgot and left the celestial hose on or some angelic mama got distracted filling that sacred bathtub letting it overflow (surely angel children get dirty tumbling all over the clouds). Whatever, it made an impact here.  Somebody was angry.  We had wind, hail, lightning, and tornados around the state. It was scary. Gumbo tried to get inside my skin from hugging me so close. We had chairs put into the bathroom just in case.

I expected the water to come up to our house because of the amount in the streets. Being a proud Louisiana man, I imagined I saw old man Thibodeaux passing each house on his pirogue shouting, “How’s your mama and dem.  Ya’ll okay, sha?” He was followed by alligators and other critters.  Made me feel safe knowing the Cajun Navy was on duty.

 So, me being me, when the danger of lightning was over, I took off my shoes, stood at the door, paused on the front porch, and waved to this old friend.  Then I proceeded in the water.  It was so cold, that the first rush of water up past my ankles made me shiver.   Or as my friend might say, “Oh, sha, I got the frisson, me.”

A flood (pardon the pun) of memories fought for attention in my mind as I wandered in the water.  I remembered the days as a young child playing in the puddles, splashing each one as I passed.

 I remembered going to friends' houses when it was raining and we would roll up our blue jeans above our knees and head out to the park without umbrellas, laughing and joking as we got soaking wet running and playing in the rain, getting muddy from head to toe.

 I remembered holding hands with a girlfriend as we walked in a light rain in the almost dark oblivious to our surroundings as we whispered sweet nothings to each other.

 I also remembered walking in the rain with a close friend who was troubled about her grades in college and returning to the campus to discover that John Kennedy had been shot in Dallas.  A terrible memory.

A favorite memory was walking in the rain with my wife at Long Leaf Vista and crawling under a canopy of pine as if we were the only two in the world.

Tuesday though, I was like a child again laughing and splashing around in the street.  Just me doing my thing.

People stood on their porches and stared. Some murmured things I'm not privy to share.  It was total freedom.  I was reminded of the Negro spiritual, “Wade in the water.  Wade in the water, children.  Wade in the water, God's gonna trouble the water.”

            The rain and destruction across the land has been horrific; so many homes and families destroyed, and we wonder if this is the end, but then I’m reminded of the verse in Genesis 9:11 where God made a covenant with Noah: “Never again will all life be destroyed by waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.”

Today, I am awake to a beautiful blue sky and sunshine that seems to make the earth feel alive and well, with a crispness in the air that makes you want to strike out on a long hike.  Life does go on.  Like the song says, “Gray skies are gonna clear up, put on a happy face; brush off the clouds and cheer up, put on a happy face.”   

So, I pray for those who were in the path of the horrible storm.  I pray for the families that lost everything or someone they loved.

This is just me doing my thing and some of this thing is pure fiction, but I did enjoy playing in the street in my mind. 

I hope you are safe and well today and remember that God has your back, no matter what.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

 PLAYING HANDBELLS

Listening to the handbells at church last Sunday brought back memories of a trip I took to the national cathedral in Washington, D.C. That’s what happens when you get older, you remember things.  I find that the older I get the more things I remember I did as a teenager when I was young and active and bouncing all over the place, mostly with nostalgia.  Now, let me tell you, I’m only old in my body alone.  My mind is still very young. My son thinks I’m on the verge of senility, but that’s another story.  Thankfully this memory isn’t about a physical activity but a fond memory of a trip with an adult.

 When I was a teenager, in the late 1950’s early 1960’s, my church, Emmanuel Baptist in Alexandria, La. was gifted a set of handbells partly because of our minister of music Joe Santo who was a wonderful, outgoing man loved by people all over the community.  Of course, since we now had handbells, Bro. Joe started handbell groups - adult and youth groups.  I never heard of handbells and thought this would be fun since I liked music and didn’t play an instrument, or to be totally honest, couldn’t play an instrument, ask my piano teacher.  She could tell you. I wanted to be able to play something.  I already enjoyed singing and dancing so why not be able to play an instrument.

 I was involved in youth choir and loved singing so, it seemed natural that I would become involved with the youth handbell group as well.  It was a social thing, mostly.  So, I did join.  And I learned to play handbells, even if it was only two notes.   

 The adult ringers became a regular part of our worship services. The church loved this addition of handbells at our Sunday morning worships.  

 Bro. Joe was an outgoing person and soon became active in clubs and programs in the city.  One of them was the community theater.  He had met Jacque Caplan at some civic program. Jacque’s personality was larger than life.   The two of them became fast friends.  Jacque was directing the theater productions at the time.  Soon, the two of them collaborated on many musicals.  Bro. Joe became the musical director for several musicals.  This involvement also brought several of us that liked and performed dramas at church to become involved as well. This is when I became a singer and dancer in musicals, like Carousel, or Connecticut Yankee in King’s Arthur’s Court, Oklahoma.   Dancing, in the Baptist church, apparently was okay if it was in a musical, even though I had some adults pull me aside and tell me I was too nice a boy to become involved in such practices.  Bless their hearts.  My mother told me not to worry because I had her Methodist feet.  My grandfather was a Methodist minister.  So, I danced.

 My friends and I hung out at the Caplan house almost every weekend during rehearsals. We were mesmerized by the whole family.  Jacque even came to Emmanuel and directed some of our youth dramas we were doing for the church, like Christ in the Concrete City, or I Saw Him.   She fit right in with Emmanuel even though she was Jewish. I loved her laugh.  At one of our performances, Joe even brought in the priest from the Catholic church next door to say the prayer. These things just didn’t happen in Baptist churches in those days.  Bro. Joe helped Emmanuel reach beyond our own walls to the community. Emmanuel Baptist became ecumenical back in 1960.  I’m proud that we were not the normal Baptist church and did things that were causing eyes to lift and faces to frown; people to think. We were a creative church that saw beyond our own walls.

 My teenage years were spent between church youth choir practice, youth handbell practice, rehearsals for the little theater, or choir productions at school where we sang and entertained civic clubs downtown at lunchtime.  Of course, it was always a plus to leave school for these performances.  I was also a cheerleader my senior year and this meant practices and fun times at our football games, and after game dances.  I enjoyed doing back flips during those games.  Of course, since I lived on a farm, I always had animal chores to take care of, too.  But I was young, and full of energy.  I didn’t have a cell phone, or the distractions kids have today.  I enjoyed being busy, hanging out with friends.

 When I was a junior in high school Bro. Joe asked the church to let him attend the national handbell conference in Washington, D.C. with his wife Lucille.  It would be a two-week trip. Not long before he left, his wife was unable to accompany him.  Joe asked me to go instead.

 Now, I had traveled all over Louisiana with family and even to other states for horse shows with my daddy.  I even had traveled with our youth choir outside of the state, but I had never traveled alone with someone that wasn’t a family member.  This was going to be exciting.

 We packed our bags.  Joe had received the music we would perform at the end of the workshop, so we only needed to bring the bells we would be using. 

 Our first stop was in Ridgecrest, North Carolina.  We stayed with friends of Bro. Joe’s.  This couple had a beautiful two-story log cabin nestled in the Blue Ridge mountains. It was everything you could picture about a cabin in the mountains.  We stayed up past midnight visiting and eating.  My room was a cozy one on the second floor overlooking the mountain.  There was a blue spruce just outside the window. The high-top antique bed had several quilts on it.  There was no chance anyone could get cold in the mountain air on that bed. The next morning an American Redstart woke me with her warbling, It was surreal as I looked at the mountain covered with fog that early morning.

 Our hosts had made a breakfast that consisted of sausage, eggs, biscuits, pancakes with maple syrup, and homemade jelly.  It was a breakfast for kings.  With full stomachs we were off to our next destination, Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia.

 That night we ate at the King’s Arms Tavern.  The meal was inspired by 18^th century recipes. I had my first wine with that meal, well, a taste of it since I was underage.  Bro. Joe shared some with me.   Later that evening we went to the Governor’s Palace for an evening of chamber music from the 17^th and 18^th centuries featuring the harpsichord, voice, flute, and strings.  This was beginning to be a little too much for this Louisiana boy who had not traveled much outside of the state.  I was taking in all the culture with excitement. My future and beliefs I valued was being shaped by this trip.

 After a day or two touring Colonial Williamsburg, we set off for our next destination, Washington, D.C.  On the way there, I got to experience my first driving on the beltway going close to eighty miles an hour bumper to bumper, but I did it and we got there without incident even though I was a nervous wreck when we arrived. This time we would be staying with some friends that both Joe and I knew.  Rep. Gillis Long and Cathy living in their second home in Georgetown. The Longs remained members of Emmanuel after they went to Washington, and I had known them for years since my daddy was a state senator and they had visited frequently in our home.

 I was impressed with their multi-story narrow townhouse in Georgetown.  I think there were four or five floors plus the basement.  While staying with them we had a private tour of the capital and the White House.  We also ate lobster at a fine restaurant in the area.  The next evening, we were guests of the Long’s to see the Broadway traveling company of the musical Oliver. I was in heaven. 

 Our handbell conference was at the Washington National Cathedral.  We had been given the music we would play for the concert at the end of the week before we left Louisiana, so we were prepared.  Daily we practiced, toured the area, and practiced.  At the end of the week everyone in attendance presented a concert to the city. Handbells from all over the country played together, our tables filled the sanctuary of the cathedral.  The music was glorious as it echoed throughout that vast building. Several polished groups presented solos. I felt so small but so proud that I was able to play with such a large group, playing my middle C and D bells. I honestly hated the fact that I would be returning to Alexandria and back to my routine.

 On the way home we visited George Washington’s Mount Vernon, his historic estate just a short drive from Washington, D.C. and Alexandria, Virginia.  We also went to Thomas Jefferson's primary plantation, Monticello.

 I came home feeling like an experienced traveler. My future was set.  I wanted a life around cultural events.

 My trip that summer was a trip of a lifetime.  A trip that let me know who I was and what kind of life I desired. I’m forever in debt to Bro. Joe Santo who allowed me this experience.

 So, listening to the handbells last Sunday brought all of these memories.  As a teenager I would have never believed that one day I could say that I played handbells in the Washington National Cathedral?

 Oh, I’m sure no one heard my C and D except my neighbor ringer from Oregon, but that’s okay.  Besides, after all, I was just one of hundreds.

 But know this.  I played it well! 

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.