Easter at the Farm
We were not, as a whole, a particularly religious family.
There is no tradition of revivals. No great awakenings. No soaring sermons that come to mind when The Legal Genealogist thinks back to Easters past.
The nearest church to my grandparents’ Virginia farm was a Methodist chapel. I don’t recall ever having attended a single service there except for the funerals of my grandparents a quarter century apart.
Maybe it was because there were too many disparate faiths — too many Lutherans and Catholics who married into the Baptists and Methodists. Maybe it was because there were too many people — cousins by the dozens is a good way to think of my mother’s family.
Whatever the reason, we didn’t have the traditions so many people are writing about this weekend: the quiet reflections of Good Friday, the midnight masses, the Easter sunrise services, the triumphant organ music of Sunday morning.
No, what I remember of Easter morning, from the years when I was a child and my family could make it to Virginia, to the Farm (in capital letters), for Easter, was The Hunt.
Sometime before the kids were up and dressed — or at least before we were allowed out of the house — the adults would go to one of two pastures and hide Easter eggs and candy for us to find.
I remember that we usually had to dress up, even though as often as not the fields were muddy or wet.
I remember that the older kids were supposed to help the younger kids … or at least not muscle the littler ones out of the way when making a beeline for a particularly attractive egg.
I remember that, somehow, the number of eggs and the amount of candy seemed to even out among the cousins, older and younger — a feat I suspect had a great deal to do with the number of adults pointing the way for the younger cousins.
I remember. Do you?