When I remember Easter in years gone by, I must admit I first remember the generosity of our neighbors across the street in the pink house in Philadelphia. I don’t really remember the couple or family but I did trick or treat there.
They had a toy factory in their basement. I wonder why my parents never took me there.
Each Easter they would send my three brothers and me each a very large Easter basket gender-appropriate full of all sorts of candy and a stuffed animal. It was the only time of year I got malted milk balls – white with Spreckels of color. I loved those. I was not a corn candy or peeps or much else except those malted milk balls and the big chocolate Easter bunny. I was always so very happy and grateful. We wrote thank you notes and Dad mailed or delivered them. I never expected them – never took them for granted so each time was a moment of wonder that someone thought of me so generously and kindly.
They never gave any to the other kids in the neighborhood and I realized much later, it’s because we were the only Christians with children living there at that time. That was okay with me – natural as most things are when you are little. I got a slight education into Judaism, too.
I also remember going to Church and Sunday school I remember one time sitting in church – St. Asaph’s Episcopal Church – with Dad. Just the two of us, no idea where everyone else was. As a kid, things just were. (Mom didn’t go to church but was insistent we did. She explained later the reason: to learn and decide for ourselves. She was not impressed with man’s version of God. Dad had been raised Catholic but converted to Episcopalian before he had children. One event later gave me a short glimpse that his upbringing was powerfully within him.) Dad was looking distinguished and smart as always in his three-piece suit with his gold watch chain, fob, and watch. I was wearing my Mary Jane shoes, white socks with frilly tops, Easter bonnet, smart (as smart as a 5-year-old can be) dress, white gloves. Unfortunately, though, I had a wicked runny nose. Dad gave me some tissues but I ran through those in 20 seconds. I was embarrassed and doing my best to handle this catastrophe. I rarely had Dad to myself and the honor of sitting with him in church made me sit up tall. He was an important man in this church. (I later learned he was on the Vestry.) I often wondered why I didn’t know to excuse myself and go to the girls’ room but lately I realized, going there would have meant going to the front of the church and out that side – in front of everyone.
After church, we picked up the bagels cream cheese, French crullers, and hamentashen at Hymie’s, the popular Jewish deli nearby, and went home. Mom made scrambled eggs with cream cheese and we ate the toasted bagels and cream cheese or butter with them. I preferred butter. Nobody but me liked the vanilla icing French crullers so I didn’t have to share those. They all ate the chocolate ones. I was not much of a donut fan, so the crullers which were very very light were perfect.
Then, the whole family piled into the 1949 convertible Cadillac and went to Philadelphia’s historical Rittenhouse Square for the Easter parade of beautiful bonnets and big multicolor splashes of flowers. A couple of years Dad bought us rabbits there. I don’t remember specifically but Dad was either wearing a dark striped 3-piece suit and black bowler hat or his seersucker 3-piece suit and straw boater hat.
I always thought the Rittenhouse Square Easter Parade reminded me of the last scene in Judy Garland and Fred Astaire’s movie Easter Parade as though we were part of the movie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYac9O3GYTM
Usually when we went to town, we would drive around Society Hill, the historic part of Philadelphia. It was quite a site, Dad, dressed as above, Mom looking elegant and very stylish with her own unique style, holding onto her hat, the four kids, boys in coats and ties, me in my smart dress, hat, white gloves, (Mary Janes, filly white socks, of course) in the back of this open 1949 black Cadillac convertible with red interior, and white cover to the convertible top all tucked in.
I’m so glad Dad loved ice cream, too. And chocolate at that, because that left the vanilla for me. Often we would stop at an ice cream parlor.
I was never fond of ham so Easter dinner was not something to which I looked forward. Mom loved it. She could never understand how I didn’t like something she loved. She was extremely offended as a personal affront. Like the liver and onions, she cooked one night because she loved them. No one else liked it. (I don’t mind it much now, but need lots and lots of onions and bacon.) I don’t remember her every ordering them though when we went out to eat – which was often.
I often felt we were cosmopolitan although I’m sure that’s not the word I would have used at 5 – Episcopalian church, French crullers, Jewish deli, visiting neighbors on Seder, the celebration which for Jesus became known as the last supper…..
As a little kid, I was always conflicted about Easter time – several days before was Seder, a celebration, then two days before was the mark of an ugly prolonged torture and death of a great man, the son of God. Then Easter, a joyous occasion.
Easter Sunday though was chock full of God, family, color, gifts, kindness, generosity, parades, hats, flowers, good candy, new pets, and the promise of Spring. Dad always remembered these family outings fondly.
c. VSY