Hippity hoppity...Easter’s on its way

Here it is the middle of April, and today marks the end of the Lenten season, which means whatever you deprived yourself of seven weeks ago, feel free to indulge.

Me, I’m thinking Cadbury eggs. As it happens, the big news out of England is that Cadbury’s chocolatiers last week unveiled the world’s largest Cadbury egg just in time for Easter. Three feet tall and coming in at 99 pounds, they say it’s edible, and is probably cheaper than a chicken egg of similar size.

It’s a funny thing about Easter. People behave differently. For the devout, it’s the holiest day on the Christian calendar. On the secular end, it signifies spring, new beginnings and being with family.

And, yes, the Easter Bunny, who reminds us that some bodily parts should be floppy.

At any rate, today is Maundy Thursday, followed by Good Friday (watch out for pilgrimages), followed by Holy Saturday.

I don’t know if you’ve seen that 1880s photograph by J.E. Smith of an Easter procession leading from the Plaza towards San Miguel Church, but it got me to wondering how many Easter sacraments have been celebrated there. I mean, consider the fact that the Franciscan priests originally founded the mission in 1598, and the church occupies the same spot.

A far cry from the Presbyterian church I grew up with in Kentucky, where Easter was an equally big deal. The backstory goes that my dad was raised Roman Catholic and mom was raised Primitive Baptist, and with few options in that little town, you might say they split the difference, so we all became Presbyterians. I don’t recall if there was fussing between the two about this agreement, but they both seemed satisfied with the minister’s sermons.

Our minister, Henry McKenzie, was of Scottish heritage and extolled the practical virtues of Henry David Thoreau and the transcendentalism of Ralph Waldo Emerson. If you’ve seen Barry Fitzgerald as a wise priest in the 1940s movie Going My Way, that’s the way I pictured Mr. McKenzie: good-humored and kindly, but also with a practical Scottish work ethic, which my brother and I experienced first-hand when we were made to wash windows in the fellowship hall for some malfeasance we had apparently committed.

When it comes to other movies for Eastertide, I often veer toward Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Jesus Christ Superstar or, time permitting, The Greatest Story Ever Told, a sentimental favorite since it was the first movie I saw on a Cinerama screen. It’s chock-full of movie stars of the time, like Max Von Sydow, Charlton Heston, John Wayne, and even Pat Boone (as an angel).

Other good ones out there on the internet could be The Ten Commandments and The Last Temptation of Christ.

Hold up. Quick detour. While we’re on the subject, don’t ask me if I’ve watched The White Lotus. The thing is, bingeing on episodes of the latest trendy Max/Netflix/Amazon series has become a little tiresome, now that they’ve started breaking into the story with incessant commercials. I mean, getting pummeled every five to ten minutes with ads for female hygiene or male something or other, not to mention insurance companies, prescription drugs, or blue teddy bear-like animated characters who use the wrong toilet paper, is expected on regular network TV you don’t have to pay extra for.

Excuse the rant.

Where was I? Oh yes, Easter. And memories of dressing up in a starched white shirt, pressed trousers, shined-up shoes and clip-on bow ties. You know ... Sunday go to meetin’ clothes. The eight of us would parade down the main street to the Presbyterian Church.

If I may, Easter Sunday was memorable because it was one of the few times we kids got to drink the grape juice at Communion. No Manischewitz. No transubstantiation.

Following church, our parents organized a family Easter egg hunt in our backyard; hard-boiled eggs we had fun dipping in food coloring ourselves. I don’t recall for sure how many eggs our mother had to boil, but today, a couple of dozen would’ve put us in the poorhouse.

I don’t mean to go on and on about this, but I guess most people have those kinds of memories of Easter when they were innocent kids. As opposed to later in life when, in my misspent 20s, I might’ve found myself on Easter morning looking for my cleanest dirty shirt, á la Kris Kristofferson’s song Sunday Morning Coming Down. OK, I’m exaggerating a bit.

Oh, before I forget, this Saturday morning is the big community Easter Egg Hunt sponsored by the city over at the sports complex.

And, hey, Earth Day is coming up Tuesday, when we’re reminded that urban sprawl is where they tear out the trees and then name streets after them.

Like Joni Mitchell sings, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.