I never completely understood the connection between Spring, Christianity, baby animals as gifts (who like as not were dead by June – what does a child do with a grown-up chicken? Why ignore it to death, of course), plastic eggs, colored eggs, chocolate eggs and bouffant, springy (ha) dresses. Really, a celebration of nature's rebirth, of the sun working into the evening seems to me more like a pagan's sigh of relief.
Anyway, there was a time when it all made sense. When I was two years old, Springtime, soft bunnies, hard dresses, chocolates and church all merged together on Easter:
Candies are not in evidence in this picture because I can safely say that I had already eaten them.
This was also the first day when I would be taken to church. My godmother made me a dress the color of a melted lemon drop, a liquid pastel; with skirts of organdy and a satin sash with a witty flower at its center. This was a special occasion, and I was wearing my Very Best Dress.
However. That morning I howled, I screamed, I cried – so stridently, so purely, so exquisitely, that my parents could do nothing else but haul me – poke bonnet and all – back home.