Last night as I was piddling around here late after everyone was asleep, as I tend to do on nights before the big holidays *ahem*, I looked at shredded colored paper and thought how lovely it was to be able to color coordinate the paper with the baskets. (This was thanks to a find at the GW Boutique. This is not how I normally roll.) I remembered the green plastic grass from my years growing up. After we fished out all of our jellybeans and Robin’s eggs (aka “lipstick eggs”) and bubble gum eggs and so on, we took all of the “grass” from our basket and placed it back in the Sunbeam bread bag that it had been stored in since the previous Easter. I can remember the colors fading and wearing off the bag over the years, we used that same one for so long. I am sure we got our money’s worth out of that single bag of Easter grass.
As I did what I do last night, a story my Daddy told me came back to me and I had to sit down on his brown couch that is in my home next to Mama’s end table and lamp and smile and remember.
When they moved to the house on the farm, Daddy was around Cooter’s age–maybe 7? He remembered their Easters. Daddy said he and his older brother would go out in the yard the day before and dig a small hole, about the size of a bowl. When they finished they would pick grass and line the “basket” with real grass. Their eggs would be left there to be found on Easter morning.
Isn’t that the sweetest picture? I can see my Daddy as a little fella, digging in the ground, crouched over his hole, working intently, occasionally pushing his hair out of his eyes, and focusing on getting it just so. Then running all over, picking and pulling up grass, the very grass that was cool under his bare feet in the heat of the day.
What a precious story.
And one that makes so much more sense and feels so much more authentic than our plastic or shredded paper “grass.” And what a relief it must be for that poor little Bunny that he doesn’t have to find his way inside. I love that tradition and that story so much.
Sometimes the simple ways are best. I wonder what my crew would do if I have them dig their own baskets next year? Worth a shot? Just imagine the memories–good? bad?–that could come from that.
Love and merry memory-making to all.