Memories of Eastertides Past

Every Eastertide my childhood memories surface, rich with the long ago echoes of colors, scents, flavors, and happy voices of friends and family members. These are some of my favorite memories, ones I pore over with pleasure every spring.

  When I was growing up on the island of Cyprus, Easter was the most important religious festive day in the year. Christmas was certainly celebrated, with decorated shop windows, carol singing in the city square, and parties, but it was not a frantic shopping extravaganza, and church events were relatively quiet affairs. However, because of its significance in the history of the Christian faith, Easter was an altogether different matter.

   As we know, Jesus’ tragic, cruel death on Good Friday, and his resurrection on Easter Sunday, served to unite his followers, who then went out into the world to share his teachings with others. It was this pivotal moment in time that gave birth to a faith that went on to shape world history. For Greek Orthodox Cypriots, Easter weekend was a time for thoughtful reflection, thanksgiving, and celebration.

   Though I was not religious then, nor am I now, I was touched by the story of the wise, kind man who died for his beliefs. It resonated with me because sectarian, political, and tribal divisions had created many heroes and martyrs in my part of the world, people who had died because they dared to speak out or question those in power. The stories of their lives were never far away in the minds and hearts of the people who remembered their sacrifices. Thus, in my mind, the martyr of long ago was tied to the martyrs of the present.

 Preparations for Easter would begin days before the big day. In our household, Yiayia downstairs would begin making the special Easter breads. One was a braided, yeasty, sweet creation, and the other, flounes, which is only made in Cyprus, was made with a local cheese, raisins, and mint. For days the aroma of these delicacies baking in home ovens and bakeries wafted out over our neighborhood. Yiayia would also start preparing her homemade egg dye. She would boil onion and beet skins in water to create a warm, reddish brown dye.

   The day before Easter, we would gather to dye the eggs. I got to dye eggs twice, once downstairs with Yiayia and her family in the traditional way, and a second time in our upstairs apartment using modern tablet dyes with my mum and dad. Downstairs we would completely immerse some of the eggs in Yiayia’s dye, leave them there for a while, and when they emerged they were a deep, rich, red color all over. We would then give the eggs a sheen by rubbing them with olive oil. Others we would wrap in pieces of nylon stockings that had plant leaves inside them. The odd-looking egg bundles would be placed in the red dye, and when the dying process was complete and the stocking pieces were removed, the red eggs would emerge decorated with the white shapes of the leaves. 

   On Easter eve, about a half hour before midnight, my parents and I would walk the short distance to our local Greek orthodox church, each of us carrying a little candle. The mass had started long before and the voices of the singing priests could be heard, broadcasted through loudspeakers, long before we got to the church. At midnight, the lights in the church would dim, the singing would cease, and in silence the priest leading the mass would use the holy flame at the altar to light a candle. This candle was used to light a candle held by another priest, who then lit a candle held by one of the people in the congregation. Thus the flame from the alter was passed from candle to candle, from person to person, spreading outwards all the way through the church, and even out the doors and into the courtyard where more congregants waited. As the light was shared the giver would whisper, “Christos Anesti” (Christ has risen), and the receiver would reply “Alithos Anesti” (indeed he has risen). As the light made its way through the crowd people shared smiles, patted arms, and kissed cheeks in the candlelit, incense-scented space. 

Then, led by the head priest, everyone would walk around the church three times carrying their flickering candles. The mass complete, everyone headed home taking their little piece of the holy flame with them. It was said that getting the holy flame home would bless the house for a whole year. Per tradition we would use our candle to light a wick that was resting in a small bowl of olive oil, and in the morning when we got up, it would still be burning.

   On Easter Sunday Cypriot families would gather in their homes with friends and family members to have a special celebratory lunchtime feast. Our tradition was a little different. We would participate in a multifamily picnic in an olive grove in the hills, where poppies and other wildflowers grew in the sunny patches between the trees. My mother would always prepare a lamb, which we would cook on a spit at the picnic site, and the rest of the families brought salads, savory dishes, and desserts.

   In the cool, early morning on Easter Sunday my parents and I would sit around our family dining table to have breakfast together before we headed out into the country, and I was always given a large chocolate Easter egg as a gift. After breakfast, our family, and the family downstairs, would drive up into the hills and several of us would dig a shallow trench, line it with foil, and place charcoal on the foil, which we then lit. Then the lamb on the spit would be placed on stands over the glowing charcoal and we would all take turns turning the spit for the next few hours until the lamb was ready. The morning would be cool and the grass would still be damp with dew as made our preparations. Once she was sure all was as it should be, Yiayia would sit in a folding chair wrapped up in a blanket and busily crochet, every so often looking up over the top of her spectacles to check on all of us.

   The rest of the families arrived when the sun was higher in the sky and the air was warmer, bringing their contributions to the feast, along with blankets and chairs to sit on.  Boisterous children spilled out of cars, eager for the day ahead. My godmother’s English family always came, along with an American friend, Charlie, whom we had known for years. Then there was an Iraqi family, some Cypriots, and Lebanese folks who, like us, had left Lebanon because of the civil war there. We were a wonderful ‘found’ family, whose members spent these picnics teasing each other, laughing, arguing about politics, and generally having a grand time.

  The place where we had these celebratory picnics was a field that was full of old olive trees, some of which had hollow centers. These venerable elders were beloved by us children because they were wonderful places to play and hide. When summoned, we would reluctantly do our duty and turn the spit for a while. Our arms soon ached and our faces grew hot, and when we were released we happily run off with our friends to resume our adventures.

   When the lamb was ready, my mother and a friend would start to carve it, placing the meat on waitingtrays, and the other savory dishes that people had brought would be uncovered, placed on the blankets, and everybody would dig in. There would be spinach pies, tabbouleh, rice pilau, and other Cypriot, Lebanese, Syrian, and Iraqi specialties. After a pause home made baklawa, walnut cake, sticky Cypriot sweets called Ladies Fingers, and powered sugar dusted biscuits would appear. My favorite was always the brownies that my godmother made. She also made extremely good rice crispy treats, which the littlest children seem to like the most.

   Once the adults had had an opportunity to rest for a while, they would rouse themselves and set about hiding Easter eggs and treats for the children. We children were gathered together and watched to make sure that we did not peek. Once the hiding process was complete, the children, clutching the handles of baskets in their sweaty hands, were given the signal that it was time to go, and off we would run, looking for chocolate eggs, real dyed eggs, and other sweets. The littlest children usually had an adult with them, who held their hand and helped them to find some of the hidden surprises.

   Though I have not celebrated Easter in this way for decades, the memories of these times still make Easter a very special time of year for me. I remember playing with the other children, burning my fingers as I turned the spit, and racing around the field looking for eggs. I can see the faces of my father, my godmother, Charlie, Yiayia, Yiayia’s daughter, and her son-in-law. All of them are now gone, but for a while they are once more with my younger self in that olive grove. 

    I can see the red poppies and other wild flowers that are growing in field. There is the glint of my father’s glasses, and I can hear his lovely, warm laugh. My mother is clinking her wine glass with Charlie, and my friend Adam is being told off by his mother (again) for fooling around. Khalid, a beautiful, curly-headed toddler, trips and falls down. He looks up, thinking about howling, but one of the adults quickly sets him back on his feet and gives him a little, gold, foil-wrapped egg. All thoughts of crying vanish in an instant and a smile lights up his face.

   On this Eastertide I wish you all the joy that special memories bring you, and I hope that you create new memories that you will cherish in the years to come.

Art by William Merritt Chase

Photos show Easter Eggs, Flounes, Easter Mass, and Ladies Fingers