Easter memories

Wrinkling our noses at the pungent vinegar smell, we four kids dipped white eggs into egg-dye water in Mom’s teacups lining the center of the kitchen table. When we were little, we probably knelt on chairs to reach and fought over whose turn it was to use the copper wire dipper. When we were older, we probably had more of a team spirit, taking turns with dipper, wax decorating pencil, and chick and bunny stickers. But at all ages, we were excited to prepare for the egg hunt Easter morning.

Meanwhile, Mom sewed new Easter dresses for us girls. She took us shopping for pretty hats. We sang along with her, “In My Easter Bonnet” around the house. On Easter Sunday, Dad lined us up in front of the house in our new finery for the obligatory Easter photo. As pretty as those flowery hats were, when I was a teen, I scowled to have to wear them. And white gloves.

I loved Easter egg hunts. The pastel woven baskets were so pretty, and one was just for me. We knew all Mom’s favorite hiding places—on windowsills, behind pillows, above picture frames. Before returning my found eggs to be refrigerated, while they were in my basket, I loved to look at them in all their purple- and pink-spattered beauty. Mom always put chocolate eggs and rabbits in each basket, too. Oh, chocolate eggs! Then came jelly bean trades among us kids—I would trade any of my flavors for their licorice jelly beans. Some years, after all the eggs had been found and counted, we’d cover our eyes while a designated “Easter Bunny” re-hid all the eggs so we could have the fun of the hunt again.

I do not recall much connection between colorful eggs and chocolate candy and Resurrection Sunday back then. My family church’s deep purple draping on the cross was exchanged for brilliant white. The church itself did not smell any more or less like incense and melted candle wax, save fragrant pots of tall white lilies at the altar’s base. That Jesus had risen from the dead I believed to be miraculous, but not personal. Easter’s true celebration was almost incidental to the fun of Easter baskets and Easter egg hunts.

Decades later, when I realized I had spilled way more than egg dye on my life, and those spills could not be wiped clean with a dishcloth—they needed forgiveness by a divine Savior—I came to see the incomprehensibly humbling glory of Jesus’ death and resurrection … for me. Now I’ve flipped Easter priorities—celebrating and loving Jesus back come first, colorful eggs second.

Shhh … don’t tell anyone, but early tomorrow, after I sing Easter thanks and praises to my Jesus, I may casually peek behind the curtains just in case my husband has hidden any of the eggs we dyed today.  

You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. Jeremiah 29:13

Quite a Year for Plums ~ my review

Oh, the wit and wisdom of Hilma, Eula, and Meade in Quite a Year for Plums! Though called a novel, Quite a Year for Plums is more a series of vignettes from the lives of the aforementioned ladies. Author Bailey White has created a thoroughly enjoyable cast of characters from the southern Georgia town where Hilma, Eula, and Meade observe, support, snipe, reminisce, and engage with their families, neighbors, and agrarian culture.

The book contains a little romance, mostly failed or unfulfilled, poignant moments, and a LOT of humor. I laughed often at little absurdities and endearing oddities, not the least of which was the characters’ absorption with technical names of birds and plants. I found one chapter completely hilarious and many others pretty funny, too.

After finishing Quite a Year for Plums, I’m heading to my library to look for more of what Bailey White has written. How often do you get to smile all the way through a novel? When do you get to marvel at an author’s finely honed—I mean spare, no word wasted—dialogue? When do you want to sign up for a writer’s very next writing class on the concept of “show, don’t tell”? Heck, if Bailey White were teaching a class on creating strong characters, I’d sign up for that one, too.

Paris in the Present Tense by Mark Helprin ~ my take

Holocaust hatred ripples into present-day Paris in the life of Jules Lacour, protagonist of Mark Helprin's novel Paris in the Present Tense. Jules Lacour's story is intricately wrought. He loves deeply, loyal to his daughter and grandson and late wife's and parents' legacies. In his mid-seventies, he feels society's cruel discarding of older people, even an extraordinary cellist and musician such as himself. Lacour is a Jewish Parisian with horrific Holocaust memories that drive his present life. He may have been fighting with God his whole life, but today he has no fear; in a way, the Holocaust made him who he became.  The palpable tension I felt as his story unfolded made me wonder if perhaps the word "Tense" in the book's title has a double meaning. The ending satisfied me that both justice and love triumphed. But then, I reflected that other readers might have thought the opposite ending would also depict love and justice. A case could be made either way ...

I am glad I read this book despite the tension. And if you like stomach-knottingly suspenseful page-turners, then this book is for you! I enjoyed Helprin's colorful, insightful descriptions, though I often got bogged down in their length. And Lacour's dialogue often reads like essays or poems he might have written; in my experience, even cerebral fellows like Jules don't talk as he does in this book. If you get Paris in the Present Tense, check out Jules' description of music as the voice of God [page 88], his theory about the power of photographs [page 89] ~ both lovely ~ and his observations of landlines vs. cellphones [page 323] ~ funny.