My grandmother's house on Easter Sunday was a wonderful place to be. It always seemed to us, her grandchildren, that the world began over again on that day. There was a newness and freshness about everything, from the first moment we opened our eyes to see our crisp, starched petticoats laid out, until the day was over and we put our Easter bonnets away in tissue paper.
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| The ''nest'' is symbolic for the home or a place of safe keeping. |
The details of her house and the way she lived in it are as clear today as they were 25 years ago. In all the years I have never found another home which seemed to emanate so many of the good things of life.
By Easter Sunday the spring house cleaning was finished. And in New England that means that it was so well done that the place looked newborn. Window panes glistened, brass and copper shone, floors and woodwork were spic and span. On top of all this summer "dust covers" crackling with starch had been placed on every upholstered piece of furniture. Cross-bar dimity and ruffled marquisette bristled at every window with a cleanliness which was invigorating whether the sun shone or not.
We arrived at the breakfast table in our Easter best. All of this had been laid out the night before, in perfect condition, for the start of church next day. Any one of us who had neglected to sew a button or mend a pocket on Saturday went to church unsewed and unmended, for grandmother's sewing basket went into the closet on Saturday evening and did not reappear until Monday for any emergency. The beautiful, well-planned order of it all is a happy memory after many years.
We left the house, properly shod, coated and hatted, begloved and behankied, with a wonderful sense of well being. The older ones carried the Bibles they had acquired on previous Easters, the middle-sized ones would get theirs today, and the tiny ones would come home with a brightly blooming geranium, which meant they hadn't missed Sunday school all season. We came back to the house to find it full of wonderful odors. Returning to this house was always a joy. It was a refuge and peaceful haven always.
On Easter afternoon, when grandmother had had her nap we all went for a walk. We called on the old ladies and gentlemen who were unable to get out in the sun for one reason or another. We brought sugar cookies which grandmother had made the day before, and tiny pots with three or four crocuses which she had started in the cellar months earlier. Year after year she went through the same rite. With 16 grandchildren it was never necessary that she make her Easter parade alone, for as the older ones became too self-conscious with this old-fashioned nonsense, the little ones were enchanted to be permitted to go.
This type of home, all the activities which went on in it and the good things which came from it, we now understand better than ever. Simple, unassuming and well ordered, based on the fundamental needs of ordinary people, it has come into its own once again. by Emily Post
