Ever find a blue robin's egg on Easter . . . and wonder? I found one one Easter when I was real young, and again a couple years ago. It still tripped me out, like Nature was staging my own Easter egg hunt.
It's pleasant and sunny here this Easter. The robins have arrived already. There are about 20 of them in my holly tree, right above the place where I found the last blue egg. I have a broken wrist, so I'll have the pleasure of spending this holiday weekend here at home with my immediate family. At least one of my adult sons has promised to come by and rake my emerging garden yard; lured into it, no doubt, by the promise of my wife's ham dinner.
I haven't always shunned traveling on the Easter holiday, though. Nowadays there's just us 'kids' to gather together, since all of the old ones are gone. There's also a sibling each on both sides of our family missing from the table, as well, so getting together for the holidays these days is less ordered and optional. But there was a time when traveling to see the in-laws for Easter was a pretty big deal.
Bad blood between my parents and their brothers and sisters always prevented my family from traveling with more than one of them when they journeyed back to their hometowns. Mom would usually take us, by train, to Charleston, WVa. to see our grandfather, and Dad would drive us to Reading, Pa. to visit his family.
Union Station in D.C. was my mom's territory. We'd usually arrive on the run, with the baggage porter following behind with our luggage. We'd hit the train platform with the steam blasting across our path and get a hand up onto the train from the most polite men I've ever encountered (sometimes just as the train was starting to pull out of the station). We pull the sliding door between the train open and settle back into the mohair-covered seats with the paper-covered headrests and watch out the window as the city shrank out of sight.
The long journey caused me to memorize every contour of the yellowing plastic controls on the handle of the seats, and the weight of the molded metal footrests that I raised and lowered incessantly (to my mother's practiced consternation). As I type this, I'm looking at one of the little hand games that she'd pull out of her purse to keep us occupied that she saved over the years. It's one of those little plastic board puzzles with sliding letters that you had to unscramble with the benefit of only one open space. I've also got one with the Adams Family on it, and there were ones with ball-bearings and holes like a miniature pinball machine.
In-between fiddling and snacking on the saltines and mints she'd pocketed from the many restaurants we'd frequented, I'd make an adventurous trip through the doors separating the trains to the restroom. It was a rather chaotic arrangement where the trains were coupled in those days, often with little more than a chain or bar keeping you from falling out. Later, there would be a more elaborate barrier, but the effect was still the same rush of danger as you could see the tracks whizzing by underneath the metal plates on the floor. I can remember sticking my little head outside of one of the windows to recklessly gauge the violent wind as the train sped along.
When we'd arrive at the station in Charleston, Granddad would be waiting with his huge Oldsmobile that smelled like the cigars, pipes, and Pall Malls he smoked constantly. The rest of the trip was a memorable string of visits to relatives, capped off by an extraordinary Easter Sunday church service; me in my powder-blue Lord Fauntleroy suit with short pants; my sister, a princess in white . . .
Travel on Easter with Dad was a decidedly less formal affair. There was no church to attend at the end of the journey and there weren't any of the social rules and the prim and proper trappings that Mom insisted on maintaining while in her company. The three of us would pile into one of his Impalas (Caprices) and hit the turnpike. There would be rest stops along the way with string licorice, frosted funnel cakes, and giant lollipops to make our little exodus more enjoyable.
We'd sing every song we knew on the AM dial out loud, the three of us. Roger Miller would come on dozen or more times and we'd belt out every line of 'King of the Road'. I think it was Doris Day who would come on with 'You Are My Sunshine', and Sinatra would sing 'Sentimental Journey' as we sang along with the radio. We were the best of friends in that car, away from the strict eye and tongue of my well-meaning mother.
Even my Dad would abandon his suits for the trip (he'd change out of his work suit and tie everyday and put on another to go shopping) and opt for his Army fatigues and sweatshirt. He was the only one of 9 kids to make it out of that town, so the buttoned-down bureaucrat look just wouldn't cut it in the town he said was famous for 'pretzels, prostitutes, and beer' . . .
I own all of these Easter memories from my childhood now, as all of the members of that family I grew up with have passed on. I can only remember the good and the bad times with equal nostalgia. I am the only one left who can recall the sights, smells, and flavor of that past. It's all become part of a wonderful stew of memories to measure my own family's holiday experiences against. Easter travel; always a sentimental journey . . .
Gonna take a sentimental journey
Gonna set my heart at ease
Gonna make a sentimental journey
To renew old memories
Got my bag, I got my reservation
Spent each dime I could afford
Like a child in wild anticipation
Long to hear that: "All aboard!"
Seven, that's the time we leave at - seven
I'll be waiting up for heaven
Counting every mile of railroad track - that takes me back
Never thought my heart could be so yearning
Why did I decide to roam
Gotta take this sentimental journey
Sentimental journey home
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