When There Were Six

Little girls love Easter. So do most of their moms and grandmas. Why else would females go to the trouble of buying and boiling dozens of eggs and spending much of an afternoon surrounded by squirming children? Because it is fun. Great fun. It's a time for creativity, messiness, spills galore, fingers painted accidentally and the creation of stories to pass along to future generations.

I have no memory of painting Easter eggs during my youth. I've never seen any photos of such an event which reinforces my conclusion that such activities never happened at my house. Maybe we were too busy focusing on the religious aspect of Easter to spend time on such frivolity. I do vividly recall quite a few of my Easter outfits and know that I always looked forward to dressing in a brand new ensemble, including shoes and socks, and eventually, a hat. Sometimes my dress matched my mother's. I didn't think that was weird. It was how we did things in the South. In the '50's and 60's. I treasure each photo that captures those days.

With no biological grandchildren of my own and a youngest child who recently turned 29, I must forage for egg decorating candidates. Luckily, they aren't difficult to locate. This year we gathered a half dozen young ladies on our patio where I expected gaiety to rule.



The residences of our awesome six ranged from Vienna to Washington state and from Tiburon to the house next door. These girls know each other from past parties and though the eldest is an almost 'ancient' eleven and the three youngest are merely seven, the age difference is mostly inconsequential. They're bonded by fun, buttressed by camaraderie. Two sets of sisters and two singles, ready to paint.

As the party hostess, I welcome moms, dads and grandparents. I've prepared 36 eggs and only one is imperfect. Dye tablets and dipping wands are strewn across the $1 plastic tablecloths being used to protect our ancient comforters. We're assembled at one end of our patio, safe from the spring sun.



Before the vinegar is measured into the egg cups, there's a pre-dyeing ritual. Each girl is expected to wear an oversized tee shirt to safeguard her clothes from damaging dye. These tee shirts are part of a collection of family vacation mementos from years past. I look at each one of them and fondly remember their purchase. However, realizing that some shirts are more desirable than others, I've devised a way to reduce any fussing about who receives which one. I close my eyes and toss a shirt toward the group. My instructions are that you keep what lands in your hands or trade it if somebody is willing. Wonderful cooperation ensues. They just want to get to the dyeing.

Carol deftly handles the vinegar measuring and we parcel out the tablets. Giggles accompany the fizzing as liquids turn various intriguing colors. Let the dipping begin. How about a double dip?

"Can you help me get my egg, Jackie?" Yes, I can. Again and again. Other mothers hover and offer comforting assistance. Nobody whines and not a tear is shed. Faces are focused as deep colors emerge and cries of "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh." resound across the space.

I distribute the eggs, six to a girl. Linnea gets the cracked one. I tell her it is very special and that all of us are 'cracked' in one way or another. She nods and accepts my nonsensical explanation. I breathe out. Slowly.



Fingers aid egg extraction and accumulate color instantly. When we finish the activity, I gently apply a wet washcloth dabbed with Softscrub to multicolored digits nearly erasing the tint. At least this time I won't be using the product on anyone's face.

Mom Renee has brought sparkling glitter to the party. She holds an egg, paints it with craft glue and then rolls it in glitter. The resulting mess is astonishing. I believe we'll have glitter on our patio for eternity. The glamorous eggs are stunning and well worth the fuss.



Too soon, we're done. One final ritual remains for this day. Matching tee shirts for each girl. The sizes selected appear to be accurate and soon there's a march around the pool in purple Old Navy shirts, decorated with hearts.



Early the next day, Easter Sunday, Carol, Henry and I are hastily hiding eggs all around the backyard. Henry, ever the clever one and with a bit of whimsey, uses scotch tape to affix several plastic eggs to our citrus trees. We plop more 'fake' eggs in the pool where they casually float to the sides for easy retrieval.



The sextet reassembles to hunt for their eggy treasures. Easter Baskets line the swing. The excitement is palpable. Even the grown-ups are part of the game. They provide subtle, and not so subtle, hints when a hunter is temporarily stumped.



Very soon it's decided to take all the eggs next door, re-hide them, and find them again. Why not? Multiple Easter egg hunts never hurt.



I look at the beautiful eager faces of Maddie, Drew, Linnea, Brooke, Hanna and Jessy and I see pure joy reflected. I try to imagine each one of them as adults, guiding precious children through Easter traditions. I hope they tell those special people of the future about a time when there were six.