Easter
Easter in Oaksdale (this took place in Eastern Washington, just south of Spokane)
In February when I was 9 years old I was stricken with Rheumatic Fever and confined for six months to a cot in a corner of the long narrow front room of our cramped imitation brick sided house.
It was bad enough in the winter, when I lay on my cot remembering the four foot bank along the back of our yard, where dry powdery snow drifted. My older brother, Billy, and I had walked nonchalantly along not knowing at what moment we would plunge up to our armpits in a snowdrift. Alone, I listened to the calls and laughter of boys with sleds, toboggans, coal shovels or any sheet of old metal that would slide, careening down the town’s prime sledding hill in front of our house.
With the greening of early spring it became intolerable. I longed to be crawling through the cool tunnel between ancient twining lilacs and the foundation of the house, and could only gaze from my window at the shady cottonwood trees along the side of the yard.
We were approaching Easter of 1945. My brother Johnny was only 5 so Billy and I pretended to believe in the Easter Bunny for his sake. But the bunny needed lots of help that year, bought candies were almost unheard of because of the war. Not a single marshmallow filled pastel egg or chocolate bunny could be found. Mama started making candy and cutout cookies, but there I was night and day, witness to everything she did. So she took me into her confidence and let me watch and help when I could.
The night before Easter Sunday I went through the motions, saying all the right things about the Easter Bunny, while I smiled with my secret knowledge of what was to come. The boys were sent off to bed, Mama and Daddy sat reading for a while. Then Daddy went to their room and brought out two baskets saved from year to year. Mama brought colored hen’s eggs and waxed paper wrapped candy and cookies from the kitchen, and gave me things to help fill my brothers’ baskets. Topping each mound of homemade goodies was a tiny puffy yellow chick with wire feet and a real feather tail, the only thing the local store had gotten in for Easter. I felt very grown up, helping the Easter Bunny. I could see everything waiting there, across the room from my cot, as I drifted off to sleep.
Easter morning Billy and Johnny came thundering down the stairs. I woke with excitement, knowing it would be wonderful, anxious to see my brothers’ delight. Then I looked over at the baskets. There by the far wall were three baskets. To my surprise the Easter Bunny had come for me as well, tiny yellow puff and feather chick and all.
In February when I was 9 years old I was stricken with Rheumatic Fever and confined for six months to a cot in a corner of the long narrow front room of our cramped imitation brick sided house.
It was bad enough in the winter, when I lay on my cot remembering the four foot bank along the back of our yard, where dry powdery snow drifted. My older brother, Billy, and I had walked nonchalantly along not knowing at what moment we would plunge up to our armpits in a snowdrift. Alone, I listened to the calls and laughter of boys with sleds, toboggans, coal shovels or any sheet of old metal that would slide, careening down the town’s prime sledding hill in front of our house.
With the greening of early spring it became intolerable. I longed to be crawling through the cool tunnel between ancient twining lilacs and the foundation of the house, and could only gaze from my window at the shady cottonwood trees along the side of the yard.
We were approaching Easter of 1945. My brother Johnny was only 5 so Billy and I pretended to believe in the Easter Bunny for his sake. But the bunny needed lots of help that year, bought candies were almost unheard of because of the war. Not a single marshmallow filled pastel egg or chocolate bunny could be found. Mama started making candy and cutout cookies, but there I was night and day, witness to everything she did. So she took me into her confidence and let me watch and help when I could.
The night before Easter Sunday I went through the motions, saying all the right things about the Easter Bunny, while I smiled with my secret knowledge of what was to come. The boys were sent off to bed, Mama and Daddy sat reading for a while. Then Daddy went to their room and brought out two baskets saved from year to year. Mama brought colored hen’s eggs and waxed paper wrapped candy and cookies from the kitchen, and gave me things to help fill my brothers’ baskets. Topping each mound of homemade goodies was a tiny puffy yellow chick with wire feet and a real feather tail, the only thing the local store had gotten in for Easter. I felt very grown up, helping the Easter Bunny. I could see everything waiting there, across the room from my cot, as I drifted off to sleep.
Easter morning Billy and Johnny came thundering down the stairs. I woke with excitement, knowing it would be wonderful, anxious to see my brothers’ delight. Then I looked over at the baskets. There by the far wall were three baskets. To my surprise the Easter Bunny had come for me as well, tiny yellow puff and feather chick and all.