My family, forever steeped in tradition, always went nuts over holidays. Like Easter, which I always thought was the most curious of holidays, having been convinced by someone along the way that spending a Sunday morning hunting for brightly colored hard-boiled eggs secretly distributed in the most unusual places was an exercise that I or any other child might enjoy.
Dad, as the photographer, must have felt like Cecil B. DeMille, because there were certainly enough characters to film every Easter Sunday when celebrated at my grandfather’s country home, where, in between the shots of all the old folks endlessly waving for his roving lens, were moving pictures of basket-laden colorfully-clad youngsters scrambling about the lawn and scurrying into the surrounding forest scouting for an elusive egg.
As marvelous as those scenes played out, the one image I wish my dad had photographed was the one involving my mom, who, leading up to the grand event, spent what seemed like an eternity in the kitchen, boiling more eggs than any fried chicken could ever lay, only having to dip and dye each egg thereafter, mostly without a squawk, except for an occasional whimsical but polite expletive which I thought amusing to witness – as would Dad, except his Kodak, although colorful, was silent.
Mom, bless her soul, would carry on the tradition well into her sunset years, generating one unforgettable and highly memorable Easter Sunday at her house in Atascadero where relatives from her side of the family all gathered for what was supposed to be an auspicious occasion.
By this time, I had taken over the filming (now video) duty, lending me little time to chat (except for the greeting I knew I’d receive from one particular aunt, who, every time she saw me, always announced I was too fat), and even less time to eat, which was good or bad depending, because Mom’s favorite Easter repast included the traditional ham served alongside her idea of a favorite Italian fare, the not so customary Franco-American macaroni and cheese from a can.
Like my father before me, I too thought the hunt for eggs might provide me with the best action, until the moment I spotted Mom sandwiched between her two elderly brothers standing by the swimming pool, a great scene all by itself, made even better when Uncle Charlie’s pants suddenly dropped to the deck. “Whoops! There they go again,” I remember him exclaiming to his very surprised sister and brother, whose initial dumbfounded silence soon turned into uproarious laughter.
I thought I had shot my best stuff when it was discovered that the septic tank clogged up. With the entire family still devouring holiday snacks, drinks, and afternoon dinner, party-goers suddenly had no place to go. I must admit it made for terrific theater. Alfred Hitchcock himself couldn’t have devised a more amusing script.
Just after I recorded the plumber furiously trying to snake out the drains, I went back to the party and taped just about everyone doing the bunny hop, appropriate enough for Easter, but I assure you they weren’t dancing in celebration. Quickly, in what I will always refer to as the “Great Stampede,” a caravan of cars was formed to whisk the distended back to their motels for some grateful relief. None turned out to be party poopers, I’m happy to say, and despite the major disruption and inconvenience, Mom’s Easter bash was an unparalleled success.
Even Uncle Charlie admitted it all came out well in the end.
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