I remember the day, on Church Lane in Handsworth, at a time very different, in the late 1950s.
With my maternal grandparents and my mother. Early church service (the children’s service) at St. Mary’s. Sermon by the vicar, the Reverend James Charles Harrison Tompkins, he who my father suspected had always had a lifelong infatuation with my mother, LOL.) Sometimes, Grandpa–who substituted when the regular organist wasn’t available, played the music. Hymns–There is a Green Hill Far Away, and All People that on Earth Do Dwell. And then home to granny and grandpa’s for Easter lunch, in the actual dining room (we usually ate in the kitchen), where we sat on top of the concrete bunker which had been installed under the floor during World War II, and in which granny and grandpa, and my mother and uncle, spent the nighttime war years hoping to stay safe from the incessant bombardment of Birmingham, Britain’s second-most important city.
And then the chocolates! One of the things that made Easter my favorite childhood holiday, superseding even Christmas!
I grew up with chocolate. The cows in the field at the bottom of the garden of our family home in Worcestershire sent their milk off to Cadbury’s, a local Birmingham institution. And Cadbury’s certainly was a part of our Easter tradition.
But I don’t think the Easter egg I still dream about was a Cadbury product, and I don’t know who made it. Perhaps a Birmingham specialty chocolatier.
I do know that it was the most beautiful and special chocolate thing I’d ever seen or eaten in my life. And that that remains true to this day.
It was a fairly large egg. It was a hollow egg, in two halves, perfectly fitted together. It was filled with really nice, and really delicious, chocolates. And it was decorated with candied violets, violas and rosebuds (real ones), together with iced leaves and trailing vines. And it was wrapped in cellophane that rustled and crinkled when you touched it. And the whole thing was tied up in a huge bow with an enormous length of wide yellow ribbon. It almost makes me cry just thinking about it. (In fact, I started to tear up, just a bit ago today, when explaining it to some friends.)
Oh, I’ve had lots of lovely chocolates in my life. And I’ve never really minded how I came by them. As Valentine gifts from my sweetie. As presents from family members and friends who indulge my not-so-secret weakness. As surprises from admirers, probably with ulterior motives (well, maybe just one ulterior motive), who sent them, carefully packaged and boxed, sometimes internationally (you know who you are), through the mail. (Ha! Those were the days.) On occasion, I’m ashamed to admit, when I’ve run out, or when people have forgotten about me, I’ve even been reduced to buying them for myself. “Sad!” As I might Tweet about myself if I ever thought about taking it to the next level.
But in over half a century, I’ve never seen, or tasted, a chocolate treat as magnificent, as beautiful, and as delicious as the egg that graced Granny’s table one Easter when I was about five years old.
Much time has passed since then, and, in the words of the creaky and ancient song that Granny loved so much, “Darling I am growing old.” And I doubt I’m unique in worrying about what sort of “footprint” I will leave to the world. Will I have made a difference? Will I matter? Has anyone noticed? Will anyone care?
Fortunately for me, a event occurred within the last decade or so that has refreshed my optimism, and convinced me that the answer to all those questions, undeserving as I doubtless am of it, might actually be, “Yes.”
As some of you may know, I’m a granny myself, of a smart, kind, and beautiful eighteen-year old. As with my own granny, I’ve spent infrequent bits of time with her, and I don’t see her nearly as often as I’d like. No matter, I discovered.
Even with the limited time available to me, I’ve made my mark and done my job.
I’ve ruined her for life.
Some years ago, her mother told me of a conversation she’d overheard between my granddaughter and a little friend. It went something like this:
Friend: “I wish we had some chocolates.”
Granddaughter: “We should go to my granny’s house.”
Friend: “Your granny is nice.”
Granddaughter: “Yeah. She is. I love her. And, [lowers her voice to a thrilled whisper] my granny always has lots of chocolates.”
Bingo.
Game over.
Earth turns, seasons change, and the cycle begins anew. Just as it should.
Happy Easter, everyone!
