Easter our way

Easters with my family are probably not like Easters with your family. One year, for example, when the first crop of nieces and nephews were still little, my brothers decided the egg hunt was boring.

This was back before we had hundreds of plastic eggs to tuck into nooks and crannies, holes in the yard or up in trees or in places no child should go harvesting. We had a few dozen eggs we'd dyed the old fashioned way with Paas coloring kits like most every other family in the nation. We were at my childhood home, which offered a huge yard, garden, orchard, barn and the rickety remnants of an outhouse that had once been the family toilet. The only rules were that you didn't cross the road, go into the pasture or the fields.

My brothers were outside, and carrying guns, of course. I mean, they were awake and upright, so of course they had guns. Seconds after declaring the traditional hunt boring, they decided to liven things up. 

Soon, there was a steady pattern of Blam! and bits of blue, green, yellow and that weird purple that came about when you tried to get fancy with egg dye, were raining down on the kids like fleshy confetti.

Forever known as the Easter Egg Shoot, the kids loved it and were disappointed when we ran out of eggs.

Explaining the Rules of the Hunt

This year, we had 350+ plastic eggs at Donna's house and yard, which is as big or bigger than my mom & dad's, and boasts a small lake. In the lake are three plastic alligators she put in there to amuse herself by scaring the new generation of nieces and nephews. One is remote-controlled for extra effect.

The eggs were already being placed when the Captain and I pulled into the driveway. Our hunters ranged in age from two to 12, and it struck me that it wasn't going to be much of a challenge to scoop them up. I secured a ladder and Gorilla Tape from Jim and sent Aleasha up to the roof of the shed. Then, we fired up the RC gator and stuck an egg to its head. I was unaware of the egg Annie stuck to my back for the longest time.

Following Rule 2:
Ask for help if you can't reach the egg

It was super fun hanging out with the kids, who are fairly easy to entertain. We were at the end of the dock for a long time as I'm not a very good RC gator driver. There were a few eggs in the water, and the kids had a good time reaching for them.

That was less fun for some of the parents who seemed to think their kiddos might fall into the water. I was RIGHT THERE and could have dragged the little rats up if they fell. Also, NO ONE actually fell into the water. 

We were having a great time even as the onlooking parents discussed my skills as a caretaker. I mostly ignored them as parents and grandparents aren't required to be as fun as the aunt who only randomly shows up and needs to work at making an impression.

Gator Driving

At one point down on the dock, when we were all growing frustrated by my inability to get the alligator to get within touching distance -- it spun around a bunch, went the wrong way, swam backwards, refused to move at all and then skittered in directions I didn't want -- I muttered that maybe the alligator was drunk. Hearing gasps from the peanut gallery on the shoreline, I decided to be educational and asked the kids if they could pronounce "inebriated." 

"That's a big word," I said. "Five whole syllables. Say it with me: 'In. Eee. Bree. Eighted'." 

They parroted it back perfectly. A teaching moment, right? Vocabulary is important.

Gator Diving

Once we finally got the gator to the dock, the kids wanted to touch it and snag the egg. Because I'm a responsible guardian, I made them get on their bellies so I could hold their legs as they stretched. 

To be honest, there were more kids than I could manage there for a few minutes. The spectators must have noticed because they started weeding them out and leaving me only two at a time. We took turns so everyone had a turn, though. 

And I repeat: NO ONE fell into the water.

Later, the dock became the site of a more serious moment as my sister, Diane, was baptized. It was as close as she could get to the Pentecostal requirement to be dunked in natural water.

The ceremony was especially poignant as Diane was the first rebel of the family. In her younger days, she wore miniskirts and blue eye shadow, and cursed and always had a great story to relay. She smoked and drank and had boyfriends: all very exotic to a younger sister still required to attend our Pentecostal church twice on Sundays, Wednesday nights and a full week during summer revival.

Jaime, me, Diana, Becca

She's 65 now. She retired in December. Last month, she learned she has terminal cancer. It's a body blow, of course, and we're all still a bit in shock. Donna, the oldest and most responsible of us, has risen to the challenge. She had taken Diane to the doctor visit that turned into emergency surgery, and she's been there every step of the way.

Until Diane feels more comfortable with her new normal, she's staying with Donna and Jim. She'll start chemotherapy soon, and if that goes well... well, we just don't know. We're all hoping for the best, of course, and Diane is putting on an incredibly brave and irreverent face on things. Which is very much like her.

Humor has always been her go-to when times turn difficult. She has a black belt in deflection. She is wholeheartedly committed to keeping the fact that she's hugely compassionate a deep, dark secret. She is my sister, and I love her. Can't imagine a world without her in it.

Donna and me

She was eight when I was born, and I'm fairly certain she had rejected the teachings of the church by then. I can imagine her as a third-grader, bright red hair, chubby face and bow-legs, leading a playground insurrection or tempting straight-arrow Donna to misbehave on the hard wooden pews on any given Sunday. 

The Pentecostals aren't much for fun. The only fun things that wouldn't send you the fire-blazing pits of Hell was board games, cards (but no gambling) and eating. 

Sex was allowed only if you were married to a person of your opposite sex. My mother was pregnant nine times in 10 years and always struggled with weight. (Go figure.) So, no smoking, drinking, dancing - one minister even declared television to be a tool of Satan because it took time away from reading Scripture. Worse, even if you lived a nearly perfect Pentecostal life, if you slipped up and said "shit!" or lusted in your heart seconds before you died, it was a downward journey for you, my friend. Do not collect $200 and do not pass go.

So why would my rebellious, hilarious, super fun sister get baptized after decades of demurring to follow church dictates? 

Annnie, Diane and Ken,
adopted into our family long ago.

The Pentecostals (and some cults) will tell  you to train up a child in the way he should go: And when he is old, he will not depart from it. Or, translated: it's really hard to get away from the lessons drilled into your head twice on Sunday, Wednesday nights and every stinkin' night of the week during summer revival. Add a bit of brimstone to it and it's even harder to get away from the notion that it's in your best interest to repent and/or be baptized before you die.

When I agreed to attend the baptism, I had a chat with her and said I'd be happy to support this decision but I hoped it wouldn't turn her into an aggressive religion pusher.

"The only soul I'm concerned with is mine," she said with a grin. "You're on your own."

Here's the thing: I highly respect people who follow a faith. My father was the most devout person I've ever met. He led by example, though. You knew he prayed for you and wanted you to do the right things, but he knew it was your decision. Ask him, and he'd give you his opinion but he was rarely proactive.

The only time I remember him inserting himself into my personal life was one day after a particularly bad episode with a former boyfriend back in my 20s, long before I'd meet the Captain. 

We were driving somewhere, just he and I in the car and he said, "If you don't break it off with that guy, I'm going to tell your brothers how to get to Indianapolis."

So I guess he wasn't exactly a saint. (But wicked funny, right?!) My brothers might have actually done some damage if they'd been pointed toward the schmuck. Anyway, I'm sure that Diane does what I do when we're in a tough spot. We wonder what my Dad would tell us to do. And we usually do what we think he would tell us to do. 

That's what put her on that dock last Sunday, waiting for the cleansing water and answering in the affirmative when asked if she was ready to receive the Lord.

My sister, Debbie, used to say she wanted to die in a slow plane crash so she'd have time to live her life but repent just before it was over. I've always liked that idea, too, but am pretty sure I'll go in a car crash, which will be too fast to get the words out.

My niece, Annie, is a true believer, but smartly follows a religion not as strict as the one from childhood. She's super fun and happy, so a good example if you want to be faithful. She helped organize the baptism part of the festivities. She, Diane, Donna and I we were discussing the process and I was asking if I could be helpful. 

"Want to do it, too?" she asked me, grinning as she accepted my thanks, but no thanks. 

"Worth a try," she said.

There's a part of me that hopes she doesn't give up me. Or is in the car with me when we crash so she can remind me to get the words out. In this scenario, she would survive intact, of course...

Anyway. That was our Easter. Tons of eggs. Too much food and too many people for a proper sit down inside. (We've been gathering in Donna's garage long before COVID sent folks outside.) And a bit of faith that would make my father smile.