I was raised Presbyterian Lite, and it never stuck to my ribs.

For me, Easter was a day when my brother and I dressed up in little tweed sports coats, trousers with knife-sharp creases, and patterned clip-on bow ties... we then picked Pansies, and took them to our Grandmas and Grandpa, in Dad's dark metallic green fastback '51 Chevy coupe with the all-business, gray pinstripe wool upholstery.

Easter and Spring go together of course, and in northern Indiana, the death of Winter and the rebirth of Spring REALLY meant something to us. Even as kids, we were glad to finally get relief from the bitter cold and deep snow that kept piling up - piling up - and never seemed to melt.

I can't say often enough how the movie "A Christmas Story" is near identical to my childhood, but takes place a mere decade earlier. If you've seen that movie, you've seen 75% of my childhood. (However, Cheryl, who, up in the woods, showed Dennis and I her you-know, was cut from the film version: "It looks like a little tiny butt!" "Yeh! It DOES! WOW!!") Neither of us had sisters.

Anyhow, Easter meant Pussy Willow, Crocus, Lilly of the Valley, Tulip leaf tips, and lots of tiny buds that would soon show themselves for what they were. The four foot icicles that grew all Winter on the shady side of the garage roof edge, were no longer deadly weapons, but the drink of Pansies.

Icicles had a special taste. They weren't just water, but they didn't taste like building, either. They were just... special. Now, water sucked out of the summer hose tasted just like its metal and rubber. No mistaking that flavor. It was unique, and was Existentially appreciated. Plus, one was Winter water, one Spring/Summer water. They were different. Duh.

Anyone's hose would do. If "the gang" was out on a hot summer day hike (and truly, I mean MILES of dirt roads and woodland hiking), we felt free to suck on anyone's hose laying anywhere in anyone's yard. Sure, if the hose had stayed cool in the shade, so much the better... but beggars can't be choosers, and no hose owner ever seemed to mind a bunch of little boys, dressed like Davey Crocket or Spin & Marty, sucking on their hose.

Ah, Simple Times. I'm getting all NOSTALGIC...

Those were pure times. They were perfect...

Allow me to read a few passages from Journal #1, paragraph #18...

.............................hmmm...

uh...........wait....maybe from Journal #2.......................

..........................uh, no...

........never mind.

My journals won't allow nostalgia. They won't allow me to turn my world or me into something new, later.

We were what we were. What are what we are.

Hose water is but a distant memory of a long-gone icicle.

===

One more thought: my wife and I were talking about Easter. She told me that her, her sister, and brothers all received new outfits for each Easter - "...from the inside out... underwear to new dresses or suits."

I thought about that, and in my head saw a two-frame cartoon:

Frame 1: A little girl is standing with outstretched hands, holding a pair of panties. She has a "voice bubble" above her head with only a question mark in it, and is looking up at her Mother.

Frame 2: The Mother is looking down, has a "voice bubble" over her head, and she is saying: "Because we celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord with the buying and wearing of new underpants."

Amen.