Reflections on the Third Week of Spring – Three Mothers Inspired My Easter Eggs

 

    At the end of March, I invited Cindy and Bruce, the Washington County Wellses, to view the mini daffodils I’d planted in memory of Cindy’s mom Martha. After the daffodil walk, we sat around the coffee table in the great room and crushed the dried egg shells I’d saved over the past year. In late May, a handful of crushed shells will go into each tomato seedling hole to prevent blossom end rot.

    Cindy and I crushed shells with our hands. Bruce mashed the crushed shells with a large wooden spoon. Halfway through the process, I opened a carton of whole shells. Cindy had brought them to me last summer with a pair of empty cartons I’d requested for storing shells.

    Many years before, Martha, a folk artist, had poked holes in the eggs and blown out the contents. I couldn’t crush these heirlooms from Cindy’s mom.

    Instead, I handed the carton to Cindy. “These are your mom’s. You crush them.”

    Cindy held the carton several moments before setting it on the couch. She chose another carton from the stack on the table and pulled out an egg.

    Martha’s in tact shells reminded me of Easters I’d visited Priscilla, Cindy and my mutual mother-in-law. Priscilla had blown many an egg to dye and hang on the small tree in her front yard. Her colorful decorations highlighted her cheerful “He is risen” traditional Easter welcome.

    I crushed another shell and dropped the pieces into a bowl. “You could dye your mom’s eggs, Cindy, and hang them in a tree like Priscilla used to do.”

    Cindy studied her mom’s shells. “I won’t have time. Why don’t you?”

    Under my mom’s guidance, I’d dyed many a hard boiled egg in my youth. I could color Martha’s shells like my mom had taught me, hang them in a tree like Priscilla had, and celebrate all three mothers.

    How hard could it be?

    Last Monday, I gathered six mugs, dye tablets, measuring spoons, and vinegar. The directions said to use three tablespoons of vinegar for bright color. I wanted bright. I tipped the vinegar container and poured a tablespoonful like my mom had done. But she’d bought quart bottles, and I had a gallon jug that Spence used for making pickles. Vinegar splashed out of the spoon, into the cup, and onto the table. Oops.

    Figuring a little extra vinegar would make the colors even brighter, I persevered. The directions didn’t say to add water, but Mom had so the hard boiled eggs could sink into the liquid. I added water.

    The egg shells floated. I held them down with the wire egg holder, but they popped up. Okay, this wasn’t going to be as easy as dying hard boiled eggs.

    Attending to one shell at a time, I angled a hole toward the surface of the dye and jiggled the shell so that air would bubble out, dye would seep in, and the shell would sink. Sort of.

    Some shells sank faster than others. Some never sank. I forced them under with the metal egg holder.

    When the colors looked bright, I lifted the shells out of the water. Liquid trickled out, gushed out, or stayed inside. I stuffed paper towels into the egg carton and set the eggs on top to drain. Then, glad none of the mothers were watching over my shoulder, I used a handful of rags to mop the liquid mess off the table.

    Tuesday morning wind howled around the log house. Not the weather Priscilla would have chosen to hang her eggs. To survive spring gales, the eggs had to slide down branches rather than rest on the ends. I waited.

    Wednesday wind calmed to a breeze and sun shone in bright blue skies. I walked outside in search of a small deciduous tree like Priscilla had used. Our trees were too large or had buds opening on branch ends. I settled on a burning bush in the front yard because it had numerous branches with out buds.

    While Spence snapped photos from various angles, I slid the colored eggs onto random branches. Not perfect, but certainly good enough for passing vehicles. I imagined the three mother’s chuckling over my dying tribulations and headed back inside the log house satisfied with my three mother Easter project.

    Pounding rain fell Thursday. When I returned from volunteering at the Learning Center and swimming laps at the YMCA, rain had washed the color off the shells. They had white tops and smears of pastels on the bottom. Sheesh.

    Had the extra vinegar and water caused this washout effect?

    I interrupted Spence at his computer. “Is it okay to have white eggs decorating the bush for Easter?”

    Without looking up from the screen he said, “Don’t worry. It will be fine, or you could dye them again.”

    An inch of snow fell Friday morning. While I did laundry, I frequently paused to peak out the window at the white eggs covered in white snow–not as attractive as the bright rainbow colors I’d hung. After dinner, I pulled the eggs off the branches and carried them back inside. After wiping snow off the shells with a tissue, I prepared to dye them again.

    This time, I poured vinegar into a measuring cup and dipped out each tablespoonful to get exactly three per mug. I plopped in dye tablets and stirred while they fizzed. Unlike Mom, I didn’t add water. With less than half an inch of liquid for dying, I tilted the mugs, one by one, and rolled each egg shell with a spoon until all sides were bright red, orange, chartreuse, green, blue, or pink. Perhaps that’s how Priscilla had dyed her shells.

    Pieces of twigs from the burning bush floated in the dye. Guessing none of the three mothers ever dealt with that, I wiped bark bits off the shells with a tissue.

    Saturday morning brought sunshine, blue skies, and chilly temperatures. I bundled and carried the re-dyed shells to the burning bush. Spence snapped photos from different angles, and I slid the re-dyed shells onto branches. Stepping back, I checked the color array. Good enough.

    Now, if Tuesday’s predicted thunderstorm doesn’t wash the color off, I’ll have brightly colored eggs to commemorate all three mothers on Easter Sunday.