If you accept the fact that Easter celebrates a man coming back to life you have to wonder why Jesus didn’t get to stick around for a few more days and have one more last supper. You have to wonder why His resurrection didn’t last longer. You have to wonder why it only happened once and just for God’s Son. You have to wonder why the all-generous God we’re taught about doesn’t do it for everyone.
Johns Street was a holiday destination. The small house was always bursting with people, many of whom would have been alone if not for the warmth of my parents. Ray & Dorothy didn’t have much money but I never remember that being an issue. There was always plenty of food on the table; ham, broccoli, green beans, mashed potatoes, gravy that Mom never taught any of us to make, and the Lazy Susan.
Our table was small. It seated six at the most and with over twenty guests expanding horizontally wasn’t an option. Building vertically was the only choice. Our Lazy Susan was a black rotating dowel with ten golden teeth under which little glass bowls were secured. In those little bowls guests would find various relishes. Over the years Lazy Susan gave us Crab Apples, Pickled Herring, Black Olives, Planters Mixed Nuts and my Grandmother’s homemade Bread and Butter pickles.
I thought it was hilarious that it was called a Lazy Susan, as that is the name of my oldest sister. The name seemed like an indictment. Susan was lazy. HA! Hilarious to a child. As an adult I know she is anything but lazy. She's hardworking. As a matter of fact, she's missing Easter today because she has to work.
When I was a child I used to worry that my Grandma's homemade pickles meant we were poor. Everyone would rave about her treats and I’d just roll my eyes wondering why we didn’t have ones that were advertised on television. I wanted Vlasic, not a mason jar filled with Emma Fiore’s best. Now every year or two I buy those and wonder why they don’t taste like my Grandma’s.
I don’t remember guests using the front door. They’d always enter from the side. The door would stick, someone would pull from inside. Whoever was waiting outside would body check the door with one of their hips, unless they were too old to do so. Once inside they were immediately hit with a wall of humidity from the boiling potatoes. Fogged glasses would be taken off to be wiped on a shirt tail or a paper napkin from the holder made by Lil McKiernan at a senior citizen craft class.
Men would make their way into the living room to watch whatever was on television. Women would stay in the kitchen, often sitting on a green metal folding chair. The chairs were old and kind of beat up. The cushions were green. When they inevitably tore my folks patched them with green electrician’s tape that nearly matched. The tape would curl up and leave a little adhesive on the clothing of whoever sat down on those chairs. I don’t remember anyone ever noticing.
Were those chairs mine, now, I would throw them out without thinking about it. Thirty years ago they were perfectly fine. In fact I favored them because they were more comfortable than the regular chairs and if they were in use the house was full of people I loved - people I'd do nearly anything to see one more time.
If only resurrection weren’t so selective.
Johns Street was a holiday destination. The small house was always bursting with people, many of whom would have been alone if not for the warmth of my parents. Ray & Dorothy didn’t have much money but I never remember that being an issue. There was always plenty of food on the table; ham, broccoli, green beans, mashed potatoes, gravy that Mom never taught any of us to make, and the Lazy Susan.
Our table was small. It seated six at the most and with over twenty guests expanding horizontally wasn’t an option. Building vertically was the only choice. Our Lazy Susan was a black rotating dowel with ten golden teeth under which little glass bowls were secured. In those little bowls guests would find various relishes. Over the years Lazy Susan gave us Crab Apples, Pickled Herring, Black Olives, Planters Mixed Nuts and my Grandmother’s homemade Bread and Butter pickles.
I thought it was hilarious that it was called a Lazy Susan, as that is the name of my oldest sister. The name seemed like an indictment. Susan was lazy. HA! Hilarious to a child. As an adult I know she is anything but lazy. She's hardworking. As a matter of fact, she's missing Easter today because she has to work.
When I was a child I used to worry that my Grandma's homemade pickles meant we were poor. Everyone would rave about her treats and I’d just roll my eyes wondering why we didn’t have ones that were advertised on television. I wanted Vlasic, not a mason jar filled with Emma Fiore’s best. Now every year or two I buy those and wonder why they don’t taste like my Grandma’s.
I don’t remember guests using the front door. They’d always enter from the side. The door would stick, someone would pull from inside. Whoever was waiting outside would body check the door with one of their hips, unless they were too old to do so. Once inside they were immediately hit with a wall of humidity from the boiling potatoes. Fogged glasses would be taken off to be wiped on a shirt tail or a paper napkin from the holder made by Lil McKiernan at a senior citizen craft class.
Men would make their way into the living room to watch whatever was on television. Women would stay in the kitchen, often sitting on a green metal folding chair. The chairs were old and kind of beat up. The cushions were green. When they inevitably tore my folks patched them with green electrician’s tape that nearly matched. The tape would curl up and leave a little adhesive on the clothing of whoever sat down on those chairs. I don’t remember anyone ever noticing.
Were those chairs mine, now, I would throw them out without thinking about it. Thirty years ago they were perfectly fine. In fact I favored them because they were more comfortable than the regular chairs and if they were in use the house was full of people I loved - people I'd do nearly anything to see one more time.
If only resurrection weren’t so selective.
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