SITTING IN THE BACK OF THE CHURCH

My keenest memory of Easter Sunday is not about jellybeans or scavenging for hand-dyed eggs. I still picture our family sitting in the back right pew of the Central Valley Methodist Church — four squirming siblings, aged 7 to 10, bookended by parents who tolerated no “hacking around.”

We lived in an old rambling farmhouse in this unpretentious village 45 miles north of New York City. A two-tone green DeSoto sat in the crushed red shale driveway. “IN THE CAR!” dad hollered at 10:53. We raced outside, pushing and shoving so two of us could win a back window seat and not get stuck on the hump. (“Hey, I got here first!”) Church began at 11.

My sister and I wore handmade dresses lovingly hand-stitched by Grandma Hogan and sent by mail from her home near Philadelphia. I remember Mom opening the package and spotting a pink and green polished cotton dress with a round collar and lace-trimmed cap sleeves. Cinderella’s gown paled in comparison. 

Old black and white photos reveal that my twin brothers wore identical suit-like outfits with short pants, probably purchased at Sears and Roebuck and, by today’s standards, the epitome of dorky-ness. Ross remembers being especially proud of his new Buster Brown canvas shoes. (“I’m Buster Brown, I live in a shoe. That’s my dog Tige, he lives there too!”)

Inside the white clapboard church with its simple but towering steeple, our family trooped one by one to “our” back right pew. Even sitting that far from the altar we could smell the blooming hyacinths and lily plants lined up on the railing of the narthex. Sunlight streamed through pale stained glass windows. We stood for the opening hymn, “Christ the Lord is Risen Today!”

Then the long hour began. My older sister recently told me that “going to church back then was an occasion for which we kids were trained to hold our water, and NOT go to the bathroom.” (We didn’t dare.) Brother Ross remembers playing the alphabet game with the printed program, trying to find every letter of the alphabet. (Thank you, Zacariah!). 

I got sleepier and sleepier as Reverend Brown droned on and on. I treasured the warmth of my mom’s arm wrapped over my bony shoulders. I was especially happy to be sitting three kids away from Dad who, when we fidgeted too much, “bonked” us on the head. And we did fidget.

After church, we returned to a house fragrant with the aroma of roast lamb baking in the oven. Our Easter feast included fresh asparagus, “Camp Orange potatoes” (peeled and cooked in the roaster with the lamb, and named for a dish my brothers had eaten at summer camp), plus a red jello salad. Then big fat marshmallow Easter eggs!

Life in the early 1950s was simpler than now, and our family was not unique. My sister, brothers and I were raised to respect our parents, teachers, town and church — and despite the sibling rivalry, also each other.  We still do.

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Yes, I ran this blog before — for Easter 2020, to be exact. I treasure the fact that, on Easter 2024, my three wonderful and beloved siblings are still here to reminisce with me and recall our near-idyllic youth, other than Dad’s “bonks.”