Debra-Lynn B. Hook: Southern-born transplant to Ohio marvels: Isn't Easter supposed to be pretty?
Published in Lifestyles
Growing up and then living in the Deep South for years as I did, Easter was synonymous with azaleas, temperatures in the 70s and children skipping through new spring grass looking for colored eggs.
Easter came in the spring, after all.
You know: Sunshine. Green trees. Bunnies, hopping down the bunny trail.
And then I moved to the tundra, aka northern Ohio, just south of Canada.
My first Easter here, wishful (unrealistic) thinking had me boiling, coloring and attempting to hide eggs in the back yard per usual.
Only thing, where there might have been bright azaleas, there were black brambles, which did nothing to camouflage colored eggs.
Where there might have been green grass, there was mud that the kids' patent leather Easter shoes sunk into.
I learned my lesson. Sort of. The next year I hid eggs in frozen flower pots and sent the kids out in galoshes.
They abandoned the uninspired sludge after five minutes, leaving me later to find forgotten eggs by smell.
I eventually learned to have Easter egg hunts inside or not at all, while continuing to engage in magical thinking regarding azaleas.
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