Easter in my family means a couple of things. First, it means a delicious meal made by my parents that’s supplemented with some decadent dessert contributed by yours truly. Second, it means stuffing eggs, treats, prizes and money into every bush, bench, pot and tree in my parents’ backyard for the nieces and nephews to rabidly pursue.
Miles found the coveted golden egg this year and was thrilled with its monetary contents.
This Easter held its usual joys. My parents cooked more baked beans, potato salad and barbecued chicken than any army of oinkers could consume and Jason and I added ice cream cupcakes from Cold Stone Creamery to the gluttonous mix. It was quite a satisfying spread.
For a little tike, Abigail sure accumulated a lot of goodies.
Madison may have been giving off that “disgruntled teenager” vibe here but she was rummaging through the bushes with as much gusto as the rest of the kids.
The hunt this year went exactly as expected. Quite a few adults were involved in the cramming of goodies around the yard but it still took a while to hide the collected heaps of treats and toys, way too long as far as the kids were concerned. Those kiddies practically exploded outside when they were finally allowed to emerge from the house and, of course, due to overstimulation, they missed much of the entirely obvious plunder around them.
Isabelle thought this “golden egg” was a prestigious enough find.
On Easter, munching and seeking has become a family tradition for us. I’ve been told by nieces and nephews that rummaging for Easter loot with their cousins is a preferred pastime and seeing the excitement on their small faces as they tear around the yard in search of oval treasures has made it a favorite pastime for me as well.
Grandparents are irreplaceable. Unfortunately, some folks don’t realize this truth until they no longer have any left of their own but I am not among that shortsighted group. Not all of my grandparents are living but I do have a set of fantastic grand-folks still around. These extraordinary individuals dwell in Mississippi, deep in the heart of the South, making visits difficult but never regrettable. Recently, Jason and I made one or those worthwhile visits.
My grandma is the sort of woman that loves without restriction.
My grandparents have resided in the same small town of about 6,000 inhabitants for almost all of their lives. When we go to see them in that tiny settlement, we spend most of our hours simply chatting, watching movies, eating delicious Southern food, and playing cards at their kitchen table or Bingo at their American Legion. We don’t pay attention to clocks or schedules and we’ve no agenda other than just being near those grand relations.
Bingo is one of my grandma’s favorite pastimes. She rarely misses a chance to play it.
We played many rounds of dominoes with my grandma. Jason never won a single one.
With all my trips to Mississippi to visit my grandparents over the years, its densely wooded marshes and wide waterways feel familiar to me, like a song I’ve heard a hundred times and know all the words to. And the smell of my grandparents’ house instantly takes me back to my childhood, to the giddy thrill of being loved unconditionally and believing I deserved it.
My grandparents always take us to their favorite seafood place for catfish and hushpuppies when we visit.
Those of you who have never been to the rural parts of the South may not truly appreciate how different the culture is in that region. Hollywood would have us believe that the South is entirely peopled by backward hicks but, before you accept that stereotype, let me paint a different picture of the area. The South’s remote spots have a warmth that more “sophisticated” locales lack. For instance, honking a horn in Mississippi is typically only a means of drawing attention to a friendly wave. Locking car or house doors seems absurd to most of the natives. And halting plans for a handshake or a chat with a stranger at the grocery store is not uncommon because time is unimportant compared to people.
I have lots of fond memories of laughing with my good-natured grandpa.
More on our adventures in the South next week but, for now, may I give a bit of advice? (You know I’m going to give it in any case.) Whether your grandparents live hundreds of miles away, like mine, or just down the street, don’t arrogantly assume that you can be of use to them but they have nothing to offer you. And don’t wait until those predecessors have become birth/death stats to decide to get to know them. Sure, you could research information to understand their lives and perspectives on paper but there’s no substitute for the material gathered from a good conversation or the benefit received from a big hug. Upon frequent association, you may find that your forerunners have strength well beyond your cushy character and that the fascinating story of their times is not merely part of the complicated puzzle of where you came from but a profound clue to where you should be going.
I am not a sportsman. I don’t hunt and I don’t fish and I don’t regret that decision. Regardless, I decided to join my family for a morning of ice fishing at Scofield Reservoir a few weekends ago for the sake of curiosity and company. Jason’s irrational desire to stand on a frozen lake intrigued him into also coming along on this outing. Sadly, despite our many holes and numerous enthusiastic young fishermen, no fish were hooked that day but at least the banter and snowballs were as plentiful as the ineffective worms.
Haidyn was a patient fisherman but her persistence did not pay off.
Why wouldn’t a fish or two want to join this party?
Scofield is located high in the Manti-La Sal Mountains and can be reached via a little jaunt up Spanish Fork Canyon. It’s a favorite with anglers because of its abundance of trout. The ice was about two-feet thick when we congregated on its surface, which is plenty deep enough for all safety standards except those put forth by worrying mothers. It was both a bit discomforting and exciting to run along that frozen expanse with snow crunching under your boots and remember that you were not loping around on solid ground but solid water.
Isabelle found her lack of instant fish unacceptable and had to be walked around until napping set in.
In the absence of fish, the snowballs did fly and there was no mercy for the the adolescent.
We all had a terrific time gabbing while the fish weren’t biting. So, although a few of the kids went home disappointed that they didn’t have any scaly trophies to show for their efforts, the rest of us considered the outing a fish-less success.
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