Easter days of yore

Thanks to the blessing of pictures, I have a particularly good memory of Easter.
Probably the first Easter anyone photographed when I was a child.
My mother and I lived with her parents, Mary and Lou Rossette, after Mom and Dad split.
I suppose my grandparents were both in their early sixties, but I always thought them to be very old.
We moved to upstate Pennsylvania when I was two. This picture was taken when I was five.
My grandparents, Mom and my aunt Mary put a lot of effort into making sure I was a happy kid, so I'm not surprised at the bounty of Easter candy and the cute bunny.

When my mother remarried and my stepdad built a home for us, Easter was almost as big a deal  as Christmas.

My mother loved the holiday... from the hours spent in church from Holy Thursday through Easter Sunday, to the festive lilies and spring decorations she planned for the house, to the shopping trip to the Ideal in Hammonton for that special Easter outfit.

I dressed in a bonnet with long ribbons, white gloves and Mary Janes. Sometimes, Mom found a topper or a coat that went nicely with my suit and that was part of the ensemble for a chilly Easter Sunday.

My grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins came for dinner and it seemed there was an endless parade of relatives, friends and neighbors in and out of the house to visit and bring laughter and happiness.

When I was sixteen, my dad finally convinced Mom to let him take me to dinner to celebrate my birthday. At first it was awkward, not knowing exactly what to say to a virtual stranger, but Dad's obvious interest in my life helped me loosen up as well. He wasn't an ogre. He wasn't a terrible person. He was my dad and I began to feel whole.

Part of being a teenager at Easter meant singing in the choir. One of the best things I recall was standing at the choir rail watching people gather for Easter Mass and preparing for my solo. 

As a mom, I followed much the same customs... special outfits, the egg hunt, the baskets and chocolate bunnies. That all seems like eons ago, but it's part of who I am somehow, so it means a lot to remember the people, the places. My mom would be happy to know I still smell the fragrance of the lilies she always had on the fireplace mantel and the tulips and daffodils my stepdad planted in the front yard.

Nostalgia is a fine thing.