Personalities of Easter

One of my favorite Facebook posts in recent weeks comes from a film-critic peer, who writes: I remember spring break when I was a kid. It was called Good Friday.

She grew up in Tennessee. I grew up near Cleveland. We had the same spring break. We did not make plans with our pals to go to Ibiza or Aspen Highlands.

I often spent that brief time out of elementary school with my mother as she shopped for Easter dinner components. This had to be done during the day as Cleveland city regulations allowed groceries to close at 6 p.m. and on Sundays. Customer convenience was not a concern.

I recall that my mother once told me as we traveled from one store to another (in a typical northern Ohio downpour) in her little orange Opel Kadett, “It always rains on Good Friday,” which I believed until I figured out it wasn’t true.

The ideal experience of Easter, envisioned by many little girls of my generation, involves romping through flowering fields in search of colorfully hand-dyed Easter eggs, attending a pleasant neighborhood Easter parade (bearing little resemblance to the glamorous event described in the lavish 1948 musical with Fred Astaire and Judy Garland), gifts of plush pink

stuffed bunnies, donning a frilly pastel print dress purchased for the occasion, along with lace-edged ankle socks and gleaming patent-leather Mary Janes, to go to church with elegantly turned-out and coiffed mothers, then coming home to a fine feast of baked ham, scalloped potatoes, and slices of an iced cake in the shape of a lamb.

This paints a Norman Rockwell-ish picture that’s unrealistic for babyboomer kids in a southwest suburb of Cleveland. The city held a stylish annual parade in the early 20th century “along Wade Park Avenue and the streets off Chester in the East 80s and 90s to show off their new clothes,” according to Mary Strassmeyer, the late gossip columnist and social arbiter of the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

In 1943, writes Tom Feran of the PD, during World War II, 300,000 people strolled around University Circle and Playhouse Square.

But crowds grew smaller after the war, he said, for reasons ranging from societal changes to bad weather.

Writing 30-plus years ago, Ms. Strassmeyer blamed jeans and sweatshirts—“part of the informality that took over the country, blowing away the idea that everybody had to get a new suit for Easter”— and on malls: “People could parade around their climate controlled atmospheres every day, year-round … And they made the malls their place of Sunday worship. But what’s Easter without a proper parade?”

The society doyen managed to resurrect the event in the mid-1990s around downtown Cleveland’s Tower City, but its energy faded when she died in 1998.

At our suburban house a few blocks west of Cleveland proper, my brother and I would go to bed on Easter eve with a flashlight nearby, ready to spring out of bed and catch that bunny in the act. Staying up all night was always a failure, allowing the fuzzy visitor to sneak in and hide dyed hard-boiled eggs, chocolate creamfilled eggs, and hollow chocolate bunnies behind the couch, under chairs, in closets and between cushions. We would scurry around, gathering treats in woven straw baskets before the dog got to them, then enjoy a few before sprucing up for a church run.

Sometimes a frilly dress was involved, but being in a climate where spring often had little to do with sunshine, the dress was often covered with a wool coat. For such occasions, though, out came my treasured white rabbit fur muff to keep hands warm. Then church, ham and scalloped potatoes, more chocolate, and back to school on Monday morning. So much for spring break.

Has there ever been an Easter parade in central Arkansas? I’ve never encountered one. We’ve got bunny visitations at the malls, egg hunts at state parks and community centers, festivals at churches, Youth Home’s arty Eggshibition, bunny breakfasts and brunches, and a community sunrise service at First Security Amphitheatre near the River Market.

So, being enterprising and left to our own devices, most of us create custom-made Easter traditions. For us, it’s getting up early for coffee and the (surprising!) realization that a chocolate bunny (maybe from Lindt or Godiva) or a box of See’s chocolates (my favorite) have arrived overnight.

Then there’s a long walk with the dogs with a visit to Paws Park at Murray, followed by a gathering with the descriptive name of Gin and Ham around 1 p.m. at a neighbor’s home. That’s where our excellent hosts provide gin (several varieties), tonic, limes, and a fine aged ham while guests from near and far bring side dishes to die for. The dogs can’t come; our hosts have two standard poodles who own the yard.

Somebody always brings scalloped potatoes, far better than any I might make. And after a festive afternoon (and a smuggled-out slice of ham for the dogs), it’s back to work on Monday. No spring break needed.