We girls always got new dresses and new shoes for
Easter. New dresses are new dresses; some are nice; others are iffy. New
shoes, on the other hand, are instruments of torture. Old
shoes have grown accustomed to the feet;
new shoes are an unwelcome intrusion of comfort.
On this particular Easter Sunday church was – the word that comes
to mind is OKAY. The Easter egg hunt following the service was
more rewarding for those of us younger than seventeen. Then came the dinner at the Moore’s house,
just down from the church. Potato salad
(made with mustard), ham (saved from the last hog killing) sweet potatoes,
coleslaw, green beans, creamed corn, coconut cake. A spread worthy of royalty.
For us who qualified as youngens the dresses got stained
with pickled beet juice; the shoes pinched and cramped feet used to shoes a year old. While grown-ups visited and attended the very young we of a younger, freer and
more adventurous nature hiked along the stream deep into the woods. The stream
widened into a pool with a gentle moss covered bank where we could sit with
shoes removed. In water too cold for
real comfort we dangled feet weary from the cramping of new shoes. Later with shoes in hand, with winter- tender feet suffering the punishment
of woods’ terrain we made our way
back to the Moore’s and the disapproval of parents, who threatened a punishment worse than twice aching feet if we tried this again.
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