It may have been funny how fast Winter came and went, but it
was surprising how much faster the Spring fluttered by as everyone was consumed
by his or her individual pursuits. Even St. Patrick’s Day, a National Holiday,
escaped without the usual fanfare.
It was, however, not to the case when Easter came to pass.
Even on Good Friday, all eyes were looking to Sunday. As were the numerous
traditions every Easter, Chelsea and her family as well as little Eric and his
would head to Tralee to visit with Grandma and Grandpa.
Chelsea and her family arrived early in the afternoon of
Easter Eve. Grandma Georgina was hard at work, making a Haggis full of pluck –
sheep’s pluck that is. The pluck of any animal in Irish cuisine referred to the
animal’s inner workings: heart liver, and lungs. Grandma had stuffed these
organs, along with rice, oats, onions, and chicken broth, into a sheep’s
stomach. Then, she tied the ends with baker’s string and set it in a crock pot
to boil.
“Isn’t haggis from Scotland?” asked Korrit.
“Yes, is it dear, just like me.”
Just like many other Irish customs, the haggis had been
imported a long time ago by Scottish clansmen and other immigrants. Just like
Grandma, the haggis became part of Ireland.
While Grandma cooked, Chelsea dug into her backpack, only to
pull out a James Joyce novel.
“Are you still reading that thing?” asked Grandpa Jack.
“This is ‘Dubliners”,
not ‘Ulysses’.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” exclaimed Grandpa.
Chelsea shrugged.
“Liz,” Grandpa said to Mrs. Cahill, “I thought you said
Chelsea was reading the book about the citizens of Dublin.”
“I always get them confused, pop.”
“Aye,” he snarled, “but there’s a wealth of difference. ‘Dubliners” may be a fine book,
but ‘Ulysses” was possibly Ireland’s greatest pieces of
literature.”
Grandpa proceeded
to discuss the two Joyce novels with young Chelsea. Meanwhile, Korrit and
Sallie played chess while Meg watched television with the parents.
It wasn’t until
later when the Pyle family arrived. That Chelsea realized how quickly time had
gone by while she talked with Grandpa Jack. She didn’t mind it though. In fact,
their talks were always quite enjoyable. They stopped briefly as hugs and
hellos circled about the room.
Afterwards, Chelsea
and Grandpa continued their conversation on the porch swing. Chelsea spotted a
cluster of plants spitting up through the planks of wood. She picked one and
twirled it between her fingers. Three little lime-green leaves faced her
directly, as if to say hello.
“Can you tell me
the story of St. Patrick and the Shamrock?”
“I suppose I could,
but that’s wood sorrel. It’s a relative of the Shamrock.”
“It is?”
Grandpa Jack
nodded. “In fact, many also call it ‘sourgrass’. Take a bite.”
“It tastes like
bitter lemons.”
Grandpa chuckled,
“You can use it to make tea or just eat on a Saturday afternoon. Still, the
leaves of wood sorrel are not that much different than Shamrock – or purple
clover.”
Grandpa Jack
snatched a piece of sourgrass from the soil and pointed to each of the three
leaves.
“When St. Patrick
was just a Catholic priest roaming the Irish countryside, he often spoke of the
Holy Trinity. Like all Catholics, he believed in the Father, the Son, and the
Holy Ghost – the three parts of all Christian belief. See how they are three
parts? This is how the holy trinity works. They are three and they are one.”
Grandpa Jack handed
the sourgrass to Chelsea and she twirled it gently between finger and thumb as
she thought about the Holy Trinity and Saint Patrick.
“Hey, you two,”
said Aunt Meg, “get in here before supper goes cold.”
Chelsea ate the
sourgrass in a single bite and led her Grandpa to the dining room table. He
sliced the haggis into healthy rounds and served them onto everyone’s plates
with mashed potatoes and gravy. Everyone dug in as soon as Grandma Georgina
finished an Easter prayer.
“What time are we
headed to Vigil?” asked Uncle Danny.
“We should probably
leave thirty minutes ‘tiil midnight,” said Aunt Meg, “you know how busy it was
last year.”
“I suppose you’re
right.”
Everyone enjoyed a
hearty Easter dinner before relaxing in the living room. Chelsea, however, went
up to the guest room and laid on a trundle bed. She opened her book and began
reading. A short time later, she had a visitor.
“What are you
doing?” asked little Eric.
“I’m reading a
book.”
“Can you read it to
me?”
“It’s a big kids
book.”
“You’re not a big
kid.”
“But I read big
kids books.”
Eric stared Chelsea
down, unwilling to let up until he got his way. He was going to listen to ‘Dubliners’ whether Chelsea liked it or not.
“Alright,” she
said, “sit here beside me.”
Chelsea waited as
Eric took his place. She cleared her throat and then began to read.
“In
the morning, I was first-comer to the bridge as I lived nearest. I hid my books
in the long grass near the ash pit at the end of the garden where nobody ever
came and hurried along the canal bank. It was a mild, sunny morning in the
first week of June. I sat on the coping of the bridge, admiring my frail canvas
shoes, which I had diligently cleaned ocwenifhr and watching the docile courses
pulling a tramload of business people up the hill…”
“Chelsea?”
“Yes?”
“I think you’re
right.”
“Right about?”
“I don’t like this
book.”
Chelsea looked at
little Eric before checking her place in the book. As she flipped through
pages, scanning for something Eric might like, she soon realized there would be
nothing of interest for a six-year-old boy who loved games of six-year-olds.
“It’s all I have…”
“Okay,” said Eric.
He listened for a little while longer, only to interrupt again by scooting off
the edge of the bed and hurrying downstairs. It didn’t matter much anyway, as
Meg entered the room.
“Time to get ready
for Vigil.”
“Thank the Lord!”
said Chelsea as she dog-eared the page and put her book away. The girls dressed
in their Easter best and gathered downstairs. When everyone was ready, the
whole group was quickly on its way to the Cathedral.
Easter Vigil, which
occurred at midnight, attracted the same sort of gathering as the Midnight Mass
of Christmas. The service was similar, too. The only thing different, thought
Chelsea, was the weather. It was mild, with brief winds warming her slightly as
they blew across her face and over the candles that the priests and bishops
were using as part of the Vigil. They lit the Christ Candle last.
“The Paschal
Candle,” said the priest, “represents the ever-burning light of Jesus – the
Christ. It also represents the never-ending love he gives to us through his
sacrifice. In Jesus’ name we pray…”
Chelsea bowed her
head in prayer as the priest continued his service. Her thoughts rambled,
though, as she thought about the boys on the bridge in her novel. She tried
concentrating, but the story was loud inside her head. When the service ended,
she followed the file of family members out to the parking lot. She remained
silent all the way home.
Her guilt, however,
was short-lived as she got upstairs and changed out of Easter clothes. She
continued reading her book late into the night.
“Chelsea, it’s
getting late,” said sister Meg.
“I know, but…”
“The book will be there
tomorrow.”
“Always tomorrow,”
said Chelsea.
She dog-eared her
new stopping point and folded the book closed. As she tucked it under the
pillow for safekeeping, the cold cover was comforting to her tiny hands. She
closed her eyes and went to sleep.
All of Easter
morning, however, she would not have a chance to return to her book. There
would be other traditional Easter activities: a big bacon and eggs breakfast
followed by egg hunts and the search for the chocolate bunny.
“These are just as
much a part of Easter as the Easter Vigil,” said Grandpa.
“Oh, Jack, hush!”
scolded Grandma Georgina.
“Why should I? You
know it is. Ancient Irish who lived before the time of Jesus, believed in the
holiness of nature itself. They celebrated spring with bonfires and rabbit
hunts. They searched for bird nests – keeping the eggs for a great feast.”
“That’s not our
belief nowadays,” said Grandma.
“They can live
side-by-side,” said Grandpa, “one celebrates the other. The morning sun is a
celebration of nature and a celebration of the Lord, too. Didn’t he create the
sun and all animals beneath it, including you and me?”
“I guess you’re
right, old man,” sighed Grandma.
The children
continued searching for quite some time. Nobody, however, located the chocolate
bunny. Grandpa fetched an old wooden ladder and propped it against the barn.
“What are you up
to, old man?” asked Grandma.
“Fetching the
chocolate bunny.”
He climbed higher
and higher. He had skewered the chocolate bunny with the weather vane.
“There it is!” the
children shouted in unison.
“Closer to the
Lord,” said Grandpa.
When he brought it
down, though, it had been too close to the Lord. It was a clump of foil and
melted chocolate.
“Luckily,” he said,
“I have chocolate bunnies for all of you, even the oldest children.”
Grandpa gave
everyone a chocolate bunny before it was time for hugs and good-byes. Everyone
fetched their luggage and packed it away before heading home.
As Chelsea ate her
chocolate bunny, she thought about her weekend. She was glad she had both
Grandma and Grandpa’s version of Easter. It made her heart twice as full.
.
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