OF CRAB APPLE TREES AND OUR SUNDAY BEST

Easter is on it's way, and I am awash in memories of my childhood. Easter was a big event, second only to Christmas. It always seemed so perfect that the earth appeared to wake up, and all the plants were reborn just before Easter. Even the ladies of the church got into the spirit. People dressed up more then, and many of the ladies wore wonderful hats. Come Easter morning, the congregation would look like a garden full of flowers stretched out before me.

In my family, there were Mom and Dad and my older brother and me. Mom and brother and I would all get new outfits. I'd be shiny and new from the inside out. In addition to a new dress, I'd have a new lace petticoat, shiny new patent leather shoes and soft white gloves for my hands. Dad wasn't big on church, but sometimes Mom would nag him into getting a new shirt to go with last year's suit and he would join us for Easter service. Those were the best years for me because I was a dyed-in-the-wool Daddy's girl. The memory of my dad, larger than life, and so handsome in his Sunday best still brings a smile to my heart. He would open the car door for me and my little gloved hand would get lost in his as we marched up the front steps of the big Baptist church. He'd hold the hymnal for me, and I'd add my small soprano to his bass. I would lay my head against his arm, completely happy as the pastor told us of the boundless love of our Lord. In my child's way, I understood.

Normally after church we would go home and immediately change into play clothes, but on Easter we kept our good clothes on so Mom could snap pictures of us and record the day. The night before we had colored our own eggs. Mom said the Easter Bunny was too busy to color and hide the eggs, so we did the coloring and he did the hiding. It was magical. We'd leave our artwork in our little baskets overnight, and the next morning eggs were scattered all over the yard. There would be eggs hidden in the flowers and along the fence, and we'd find at least one chocolate bunny for each of us, stuck in a tree branch. Mine was always in my crab apple tree. I claimed the tree as mine as soon as I could reach the bottom branches. It was a perfect old tree that stood beside our driveway. Its large lower branches were just the right height for a little girl to climb onto. I would spend hours in that tree, thinking about all sorts of things from the annoying, but cute little boy next door, to why my mom and dad fought so much. The name "crab apple" didn't do my tree justice. My family called it our "Easter miracle tree" because every year, no matter when Easter came, it was in bloom. There would be a riot of blooms in all shades of pink, and the perfume was sweet. It was always abuzz with bees that were so happy at their work that they never bothered with the little girl sitting among the branches. It's odd how things with simple names somehow become something extraordinary to a child. So it was with this tree.

I remember one Easter when my brother and I finally grew tired of hiding and finding jewel-toned eggs and the chocolate bunnies were melting onto bright yellow peeps, I climbed up in the crook of my tree. From my perch I could see our house. Mom was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the ham, dad was sitting on the porch petting our dog, and my brother was upstairs finally changing out of his suit. A quick gust of wind ruffled my skirt, a shower of pink petals fell all around me, and for that moment, life was perfect. That memory has stayed with me all these years.

A couple years later my dad and mom separated. We had to move from our house, and I left behind the yard with the miracle tree. I grew up.

Years later, I had children of my own, and we colored jewel-toned eggs for the Easter Bunny to hide. There were chocolate bunnies, Easter services and flower garden congregations in their Sunday's best, but ladies don't wear hats much anymore, and I miss that. Mom and Dad are both gone now, but the love they left me is alive and well. I drove by the old house the other day, and there is a sad stump where my stately crab apple tree once stood. Perhaps it died of old age or was stricken by a passing storm. Easter is almost here now and the earth is waking up again. I keep remembering a special Easter Sunday when I was a child. Perhaps I'll go to the park and see if I can find a crab apple tree in bloom, and maybe, as I stand under it, a breeze will ruffle my skirt and a shower of pink petals will fall all around, and the world will be perfect again for a moment.

Jane Nicholas is a Jackson resident, a Southeast Missouri State University graduate and mother of two.