Shout Hallelujah!

Or just say it. We don't really shout hallelujah here in Minnesota. We are far too polite. In fact, we'd rather say alleluia. But, let's not argue semantics.

We won't say where we've been for the past three months -- that is a tale to be told sometime soon. Let's just revel in some heavy nostalgia for Easters Past -- when Easter was a religious holiday not just an occasion for Brunch with some schmutz dressed up like the Easter Bunny.




Here's our Mother. Looking pretty in a soft, slightly fuzzy coat that she made herself. Can't see the hat very well, but she made that, too. And the dress. Maybe even her underware. Everything homemade but the white gloves. But given enough time, she probably could have made those, too. Yes, that's when a mom was not just a mom, but a seamstress, milliner, cook, nursemaid, gardener, and round the clock ego-bolsterer. Hallelujah, how the heck did she do it without massive amounts of alcohol and cigs? I'd be institutionalized or incarcerated.



Here's our Father. And four of the nine siblings. Backyard at the family manor in south Minneapolis just one block from Incarnation Church--known as the Cradle of Catholicism. (OK. I went to Mass there tonight.) Yeah, we're styling in outfits that our Mother made. There's Joe, the pathetic little guy with glasses. Dig those highwater pants and little brown boots. Rita and I have matching dresses. John in the rear goofing around. Probably looking at Dennis or the "baby" (cause there was always a baby around).

The drill was: First go to Mass. Then find the Easter Basket. Then breakfast--dad cooked and he set the table the night before. There was always a centerpiece of dyed eggs in cellophane grass along with Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs. Joy of Joys. Good chocolate. Dad's special treat. Cause some things can't be delegated to the Easter Bunny.

Deo Gratias.

Listening to: Jazz Image with Leigh Hammond.
Enjoying: Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs and a chilled Pino Grigot.