I still remember the magic of a childhood Easter.
The day started with church– new dresses, white shoes, and Easter bonnets for my sister and me, a new little 3 piece suit and black shoes for my brother. I remember how itchy those hats were, and just how much I was willing to endure because I didn’t want to take them off. haha. I felt so very fashionable.
After church (during which the entire air was perfumed with Easter lilies and corsages), we came home to a beautiful Easter meal. My Mom always outdid herself– ham, asparagus, scalloped potatoes, homemade crescent rolls, and something decadent like classic carrot cake for dessert.
Usually after the meal we would pile into the car and head to my Grandma’s house. She lived on a gorgeous, expansive Pennsylvania dairy farm, nestled right up alongside the mountains, as if the valley and the mountain were an old married couple, snuggled together in bed. The farm was lush and green, and I always looked forward to the Easter egg hunt.
My cousins hid the eggs– they were older– and craftier. And the older they got the harder the eggs got to find. They kept a master list upon which was marked the locations of all the eggs, like a gigantic treasure map. They refused to show anyone the list, and it was always top secret. Apparently they hid the eggs so well that sometimes they themselves couldn’t find them, because occasionally we would have an egg pop out of the grass during summer lawn mowing season. 😉
I remember the sounds of laughter. The sights– the yellow kiss of forsythia and green, lush grass. Tulips and daffodils poking their heads up to the sun in a still-chilly sky. The smell of hyacinths and perfume for Sunday. The feel of family.
Now that I am an adult with my own family and my own traditions, I try to honor those ones I remember.
Jill brought these plates that reminded me that holidays can be equal parts whimsy and memory.
And those pretty little deviled eggs. Jill made these beauties and colored them for the season. They whisper of color. Of laughter. Of spring.
I love the sunlight streaming through the windows onto the antique farmhouse table which was, ironically, made by The Handmade Table in Tennessee from an old 1800s Pennsylvania grain barn. My Pennsylvania roots always seem to find their way home.
I remember the simple joy of sharing a good meal with friends and family who mean the most to you. Laughing and breaking bread together.
I remember always, a showstopping dessert– in this case, Cinnamon Roll Pound Cake. A dessert that whispers of decadence paired with beauty.
Little flowers that edge the cake like a flower crown . . . the beauty and simplicity of childhood, captured in one beautiful moment.
My family members were quiet, hard-working Pennsylvanians. The German heritage was diligent– quiet– bred in the bone. They said little, and were always busy. But holidays, we saw the smiles. We saw those care-worn hands relax and play Phase 10, instead of weeding the garden. We saw the beautiful things that they could create.
It was a rare and beautiful time to appreciate the things in life that they were usually too busy to be able to relax and celebrate.
The beauties of every day. The whispers of times past, and the promises of times present. Love, hope, family.
You did it. And I’m just so proud of you.
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