Dyeing the Easter Eggs

As a compassionate heretic, I can hardly say anything demeaning about this particular day of the year.

This is THE DAY that Christianity is all about.

Meanwhile, the only thing that a bed-wetting, toe-sucking, left-wing pinko commie heretic like me can really do on this day is to stay home and reminisce about the distant past when we used to boil white-shelled eggs in various dyes. Back in those days, everybody dyed Easter eggs, and everybody went to church on Easter Sunday.

My childhood memories of Easter Sundays are of uncomfortable clothing, long services at church, picture posing after church, and long sumptuous dinners at my grandparents' house. And the preparations each year included the purchase of the annual new suit.

Here's a picture of me and my sister Jo posing in our new Easter outfits in 1954...

I'm can't really tell where this picture was taken. It might have been outside of my Grandparents' house at 8 Barnard Road, or my other grandparents' house at the end of Shaffner Street, or maybe even outside the house we lived in at the time at 29 Shaffner Street.

Wherever it might have been, though, I do remember that stupid little bow-tie and how much it chafed my neck.

And I remember the agonizing eternity of having to sit still and be quiet in a church pew while all that oration and hymn singing took place. I knew that it was a solemn occasion, but I certainly didn't know why. The only thing that fascinated and thrilled me was the thunderous excitement of the gigantic, multi-keyboard organ... whenever the organist began playing, I felt that I was close to heaven.

To one and all, I wish you a Happy Easter.