Here Comes Peter Cottontail
Here comes Peter Cottontail
Why did that song pop into my head this morning while I was making A-spaces? For one thing, the weather appears to be improving at last, even in western Pennsylvania, where the snows tend to linger. We spotted crocuses hiding among the old, dry grass, and the Post Office daffodils, while not yet flowering, have at least poked up green shoots.
Also, next Sunday is Easter (in the Western Tradition, let's not start that war again). Eggs are being dyed. Chocolate is being tortured into odd shapes. People are buying new hats. News outlets are trotting out weird factoids: did you know the reason we hard-boil eggs at Easter? Allegedly because eggs were forbidden during Lent. So the peasants saved them for an Easter feast. Sounds right to me.
I finally realised the reason Gene Autry popped into my head this morning: I was remembering my mother singing about Peter Cottontail. If you'd said 'Holy Week' to her, she would have been unhappy: she disapproved of liturgical calendars, which she thought were unchristian. But she loved the Easter Bunny, and Easter baskets, and such. I have a Proustian recollection of the food-colouring-and-vinegar mixture in the old cups, and dipping the eggs in carefully, trying to be patient and obtain the most supersaturated reds, blues, and greens I could, double-dipping in a try for purple... Easter eggs are fun. Make some with the kids.
Of course, the Hoggetts will make lots: they want targets for the Annual Easter-Egg Shoot.
h2g2 is ready.
Yes, they're working on the Pliny problem. In the meantime, go retro and read this beautiful ezine in all its old-fashioned glory. Send us more Stuff. Leave comments of an encouraging nature. Remember to sign up for the Meet, if you're going. (More on that next week.)
And have a wonderful Easter! χριστος ανεστι and here comes Peter Cottontail!
Where's the sofa?
Stormwinds of Worthington.
Serenading for beginners.
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