It's about that point of the Easter week when our mothers used to check to see if our Buster Brown patent leather shoes had scuff marks all over them or if she thought they were in acceptable Easter condition. If they didn't pass the Easter inspection, she'd load us all up and take us down to Mel-Mac shoe store and let the man measure our feet. He'd sit on the stool and we'd hold our foot out on the ramp thingy, while he buckled them. This could take longer if you chose to don the fancy double-strapped Mary Janes. While we were there, we'd always pick up a new pair of knee socks, lacy ankle socks, or a pair of white hose, because, likely, all the socks had picks in them or the hose had runs and that sort of nonsense would never do for this special day. I remember my brothers having the lovely brown, lace-up loafers, but it seemed their Easter readiness shoe inspection wasn't near as stringent as mine. Resurrection Sunday was not to be greeted with anything less than spotless patent leather.
There was always the annual Easter egg dying. This process usually took place on Saturday night at our house. By then, I'd usually had my Saturday night bath and my hair was in pink sponge rollers for the night. Was there anything more uncomfortable than sleeping on a head full of those?  It was the price we paid for beauty, I suppose. Anyway, no Easter was complete without fingertips stained with PAAS and wreaking of vinegar. There were none of those plastic eggs stuffed with money and candy. No, we had one dozen real eggs to work with, on Sunday afternoon, and the only prize inside those was a smelly clump of yuck. But, we didn't know any better. We had the best time hunting and throwing those crumbling eggs on top of each other in our baskets over and over again.
 
Of course, you'd set out the baskets before bed on Saturday. Not those fancy personalized ones they have now. Back then, your Easter basket may have held magazines, the rest of the year, but, on this special day, it was going to gird your allotment of confectionary delights. It marked the boundaries of where your siblings' rights stopped and where yours began. Our baskets didn't rival a visit from Santa, like they do now. There was just enough candy to cover the top of the dark green plastic grass. Easter was the one morning of the year when it was not only acceptable, but expected, that breakfast would consist of just eggs.....Heavenly Hash eggs, peanut butter eggs, jelly bean eggs, marshmallow eggs, and foil wrapped solid milk chocolate eggs.....and whatever those weird shaped, colored eggs were that had the white chalky stuff inside. What was that? Toothpaste? Anyway, it was the one day we were allowed to eat candy for breakfast and that made for a really good day.
The Easter bunny in the mall/department store has come a long way, too. Now, he looks like he might not actually kill you in your sleep when he comes to visit your house in the night. I'd say that's an improvement over yesteryear. A real advancement in fostering pediatric mental wellness.

And no Easter was complete without a big lunch after church. Usually, there was a ham, a roast, and a cake fashioned with coconut also acting as grass to some jelly bean eggs. And, at our house, there was always the pear salad. A half of a pear topped with a dollop of mayo and sprinkled with cheese. I don't know what intoxicated person first came up with this, but it has never graced any plate of mine. But, to each his own. If you go to my Mama's house for Easter, you'll likely be offered one.
  

I hope you're having a great Easter week!

I'll see y'all back here in a couple of days, friends.