REAL OR PLASTIC?

Thinking about Easter caused one of those cascading warm feelings covering me from head to toe.

I hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but my brain pulled it out of a back file and plopped it in the front folder recently … a cherished childhood Easter memory.

On a small farm in south central Pennsylvania, they retired. Three generations in America they were descendants of Germans. Five of their children were alive, but the sixth passed away at a young age. Despite the leanest of times, they remained hardworking and self-sufficient. They were fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch and English from birth. Some of their words were unusual and phrases turned. They were in a line of Lutheran-Germans, not Amish or Mennonite like many of their neighbors.

They relied on the land for their sustenance or grew what they shared at their table. Fridays was baking day. Monday laundry. Tuesday ironing, etc. Thus went their busy laborious weeks.

I came along as one of eighteen grandchildren. To me, they were “Grandma” and “Pappy”. We called both of our grandmothers “Grandma”. In their presence they were “Grandma”. When speaking about them when they weren’t present, we added their last names to clarify. As I reminisce, it sounds very formal today to use their last names. But, as a child it wasn’t formal or stiff collared. We spoke their names with love, warmth, delight, and deep affection.

This is one of my earliest Easter memories. I know we did it many years in a row, cementing the tradition. Funny, I don’t recall Easter with Mom’s side of the family as much. Those memories center more around Christmas.

Grandma Stough had Easter lunch after church. Her entire kitchen was filled with tables, squeezing all of us into a tight spot. There may even have been a table in the living room. I recall scooting behind seats, crawling under the table and sitting shoulder to shoulder, maybe even overlapping! We didn’t care, it was a holiday tradition.

After lunch, the fun commenced. Grandma would bring out of the cold cellar or the walled in porch, if cool enough outside, the biggest bowl of dyed eggs, a rainbow of colors. I know there must have been at least 5 dozen. It was a huge bowl and there were 18 hunters.

While the adults did the hiding, we “egg hunters” stayed in one room of the house where curtains were drawn. I know we used some sort of container, but I don’t recall if we each brought our own or used a “farm holder” like strawberry baskets or something.

The air filled with squeals and laughter as the doors opened and hunting ensued. They had the best hiding places in their yard! One of my favorites was the hedgerow. Delineating the yard between the house and the field was a long row of hedges. Five or six feet tall! Those hiders could get those hued eggs stuck way back in the hedge making the discovery  … oh, so sweet!

I recall counting them when we thought we were done and the adults would say, “Nope, three more!” Back to hunting we hustled. Those were the expert hidden eggs, and finding one of those made me feel extra proud of my skills.

These were REAL eggs. Plastic eggs were not in existence. We took them home and ate them. Lest you think we were chocolate deprived, think again. Have you ever been to an Amish store? People there have a serious approach towards baking and confections. Grandma would never celebrate without pies, cakes, cookies and at Easter her chocolate-covered peanut butter Easter eggs too. (Same recipe I make today.)

Desserts are never lacking in Pennsylvania Dutch country! They are the most delicious you will ever lay your lips on, seriously. All of them were customary in my childhood. They spilled over in every house we visited; grandmas, aunts, great aunts, neighbors, church socials, etc.

Aside: No one felt guilty back then, or that they were a “guilty pleasure.” They were the last course of a meal, afternoon snack, or breakfast! Those were the good old days!

Even when I was a wee one, Easter egg hunts were part of our family tradition!

I would bet the job of dying all those eggs paled compared to the squeals, laughter and fun her grandchildren had hunting them. I imagine it flooded her heart with joy and filled her home with love beyond measure. I hope it did!!

Did you have Easter Egg Hunts in your memory files?

How many of you remember dying and/or hunting REAL eggs?

What childhood Easter memory pops up in your files?

Happy Hunter,