Knock, Knock!

Last week--Holy Week, as we called it when we were practicing Catholics--was more difficult than I thought it would be.   As each day drew closer to Easter, my anxiety level increased.  This would be my first major holiday as a WiDeaux.

Growing up, Easter was always a big holiday in my family.  My parents and grandparents would boil dozens of eggs, which we would decorate as elaborately as we could.  We smelled like vinegar and had multi-colored hands for days.   They boiled so many eggs because we needed them for knocking.  Where we grew up in southern Louisiana, egg knocking was a bigger part of the Easter celebration than the Easter Bunny.   The seat of the parish (county) even holds an egg knocking contest on the courthouse square each year.

This is how egg knocking works: first, each person chooses an egg.  Then, one person holds his/her egg steady while the other knocks (or pocks) it. There are as many methods of knocking as there are people knocking them.  The owner of the winning egg moves on to challenge someone else, while the loser gets a new egg to try again.  The owner of the last egg standing wins.   To get the most mileage out of our eggs, we’d turn them around and knock the undamaged sides, as well.

My grandfather was always like a little kid at Easter—knocking eggs was one of his favorite things to do.   He would knock with everyone he possibly could, even the dog.   After we knocked with my grandparents, we’d go to a big family gathering and knock eggs there.  There was usually a pig roasting in the background, and 
plenty of side dishes and cakes to be consumed for lunch.   Of course, there were also dishes 

of deviled eggs, potato salad, and anything else that one could make with freshly broken eggs.  The rest would go into the refrigerator to be pickled the next day.

Bunny and I continued the egg dying and knocking with Joey when he was little, and then with Trinity.  Since she was a baby, Easter has always involved two things: a trip to the mall to get her photo with the Easter Bunny (who always terrified her, no matter how friendly it looked), and eggs.   Last year, she flatly refused to visit the Easter Bunny, purportedly because it wasn’t the cool thing to do for a big girl.  Some part of me suspected that she was still a bit afraid.  She still continued to embrace the egg dying, which was a good thing, because Bunny liked dying the eggs as much, if not more than, knocking them.

For all his nerdy ways, Bunny was quite artistic.  He could draw free-hand very well, for one thing.  Another of his specialties was making flower arrangements—that was his major contribute to our décor.  He had an eye for colors and shapes that could be very pleasantly surprising.  His very favorite artistic endeavor, though, was dying eggs.  He and Trinity would sit for hours trying to out-do each other with their creations, long after I’d finished mine.  One of his best-ever eggs looked like Monet, himself, had painted it.  

Last week, as I bought the Easter goodies for the kids, I also bought dye for the eggs.   I was excited at first, because this package of dye had glitter.  I love me some glitter!!  As the week wore on, though, I started getting sad, because this would be the first time in 25 years that I wouldn’t have Bunny to take over the decorating process.

I babysat the kids on Good Friday, intending to go out in the afternoon to get the eggs, which we’d dye on Saturday.   Sarita was sick all day, though, and clearly didn’t feel good.  Instead of going out for eggs, Trinity and I had a movie marathon at home while Sarita alternately slept or rooted around the house.  She was unusually cranky, and did not like having her nose wiped, even though she frequently needed to have it done.

By Saturday morning, my last good nerve was worn out.  The thought of dying eggs was causing me so much anxiety that even the thought of having eggs for breakfast made me ill.  I packed up the kids and took them home, explaining to Trinity that I was sorry, but I just couldn’t bring myself to doing the eggs this year.  She said she understood, but I could tell she was not pleased.

After I’d calmed down, I went back later that evening, and Corey told me she was still upset.  I went into her room and climbed into bed with her, hugging her and telling her how sorry I was that we hadn’t dyed eggs.  Now I was really feeling bad.

“That’s not what I’m sad about,” she said, her back to me.

“Then what are you sad about?” I asked, turning her to face me.

“I’m sad that you’re still sad.”  My heart melted.  I explained that this was my first holiday without Poppi, and lots of people in my position felt the same way.  I also assured her that I’d be less sad as time wore on, and that I was sure we’d die eggs next year.

Then we started talking and laughing about egg dying from years past, and how smug Poppi had been  about his artful eggs.  Joey dyed eggs with her later, after I’d gone.

On Easter, I didn’t call my step-father until the evening, because for as long as I’d known him (35+ years), he’d been involved in Easter festivities with his family until then.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only newly widowed person to feel less than enthused about the holiday—he had spent a quiet day with only his daughter for company.  He just hadn’t felt like doing the big family gathering.  I assured him I knew exactly what he meant.