Easter Dues
Looking back on childhood we all think of Christmas with great joy. However, for me growing up on the Northside of Dublin in the eighties, it was always Easter that had a special place in my heart. Two weeks of school being closed for the holidays entwined with the prospect of Spring on the horizon gave an excitement and a renewed sense of hope. For some reason, I always associate Easter with my dad. It must be the whole “Father why have you forsaken me?” concept that I will explain later.
There a few different things that spring to mind for me at this time of the year and religion played a big part for me as an eleven-year-old boy. But not in the way you might expect. My best friend had got it into his head that he wanted to be an altar boy. And if it was good enough for my best friend it was good enough for me. A lad in his class was the lead altar boy, Bernard, and he told us to come to the church for a meeting one Monday evening before Easter. It was too ceremonious for me, and the parish priest had entrusted Bernard with the rota for the masses and all of the trappings of power that went with it. Bernard thought he was cooler than the other side of your pillow. There was talk of uniforms and bells and when he mentioned the inauguration ceremony for all of the altar boys, that entailed being thrown into the torn bush after your first service, I swiftly reassessed my ecumenical values and decided the life of the altar boy was probably not the path I wanted to take.
Instead, I remember watching the snooker championship that Easter. Our television had gone on the blink and the repair man only had a black and white set for us to watch while he was actively trying to nourish our colour Ferguson back to full health. It was the year whispering Ted Lowe, the much-loved commentator, who was prone to some stellar gaffes, remarked, “And for those of you watching the game in black and white, the pink ball is the one behind the blue.”
When the snooker was over it was back to the final weekend of “Jesus of Nazareth.” Dear younger reader in the days before Netflix, this was our box set. Six weeks before Easter, this mammoth show was screened every Sunday, culminating in the grand finale on Easter Day. Robert Powell with his hypnotic eyes portrayed the doomed Christ.
For some reason all the kids on my road were only interested in the final episode, the crucifixion, you can understand it was the only piece of drama we would see outside of Starsky and Hutch. Spoiler: He dies in the end.
These are fleeting memories for me but the one Easter memory I will never forget goes back to my dad. He was a cooper and worked in the distillery on Thomas Street. For some reason, there was a large batch of Easter eggs delivered to the stalls on the nearby Meath Street. My father couldn’t resist the bargain and decided to spoil his sons with a vast quantity of these chocolate delights. I had three brothers.
“Moongold!” the name beamed. I can still see the box! In fairness the box was quite deceptive, a cartoon rabbit (Bugs Bunny was very big at the time – great marketing) in an Astronaut outfit danced around a planet with eggs everywhere. He had landed on the moon apparently and found the promised land of Easter Eggs.
In reality these eggs were probably imported from Afghanistan and the best part of the production was the rabbit. When I say insipid, it does not do justice to the taste. The fact that I am still thinking about it after all these years is the best description, I can give to the metallic taste from the bowels of hell that was set upon us. The four of us got five eggs each. You can imagine the wall of depravity that stood on our sideboard longer than the wall in Berlin. My mother didn’t have to dust until July.
My only saving grace was the one egg my Aunty Bernie had gifted me. She had left me a Cadburys and I kept it there like a marooned shipwrecked sailor would leave his last can of spam. Knowing once it was gone, my life would be over. But like in Berlin, the wall finally crumbled and by the Summer, the rabbit had left for more adventures in the stratosphere and never appeared in our house again.
My Dad laughed about it for years after. “Will I get more Moongold?” he would ask to four traumatised children.
But in the spirit of Easter, I will forgive him. And this weekend, I will visit his grave, and no I won’t leave horrendous eggs to spite him, but rather say a prayer to say thanks. He meant well. I would give anything if it was he could raise from the dead and laugh about it one more time.
But rejoice! It is Easter. A time for renewal! So, sit back with your favourite Easter Egg this Easter tide or if you are not a chocolate lover, take in the beauty of the Daffodils or Tulips that tell us better days are ahead. And if you see a rabbit in this meadow in your vision, stay away. His space suit is nearby and he is armed and dangerous with Afghanistanian chocolate.
Looking back on childhood we all think of Christmas with great joy. However, for me growing up on the Northside of Dublin in the eighties, it was always Easter that had a special place in my heart. Two weeks of school being closed for the holidays entwined with the prospect of Spring on the horizon gave an excitement and a renewed sense of hope. For some reason, I always associate Easter with my dad. It must be the whole “Father why have you forsaken me?” concept that I will explain later.
There a few different things that spring to mind for me at this time of the year and religion played a big part for me as an eleven-year-old boy. But not in the way you might expect. My best friend had got it into his head that he wanted to be an altar boy. And if it was good enough for my best friend it was good enough for me. A lad in his class was the lead altar boy, Bernard, and he told us to come to the church for a meeting one Monday evening before Easter. It was too ceremonious for me, and the parish priest had entrusted Bernard with the rota for the masses and all of the trappings of power that went with it. Bernard thought he was cooler than the other side of your pillow. There was talk of uniforms and bells and when he mentioned the inauguration ceremony for all of the altar boys, that entailed being thrown into the torn bush after your first service, I swiftly reassessed my ecumenical values and decided the life of the altar boy was probably not the path I wanted to take.
Instead, I remember watching the snooker championship that Easter. Our television had gone on the blink and the repair man only had a black and white set for us to watch while he was actively trying to nourish our colour Ferguson back to full health. It was the year whispering Ted Lowe, the much-loved commentator, who was prone to some stellar gaffes, remarked, “And for those of you watching the game in black and white, the pink ball is the one behind the blue.”
When the snooker was over it was back to the final weekend of “Jesus of Nazareth.” Dear younger reader in the days before Netflix, this was our box set. Six weeks before Easter, this mammoth show was screened every Sunday, culminating in the grand finale on Easter Day. Robert Powell with his hypnotic eyes portrayed the doomed Christ.
For some reason all the kids on my road were only interested in the final episode, the crucifixion, you can understand it was the only piece of drama we would see outside of Starsky and Hutch. Spoiler: He dies in the end.
These are fleeting memories for me but the one Easter memory I will never forget goes back to my dad. He was a cooper and worked in the distillery on Thomas Street. For some reason, there was a large batch of Easter eggs delivered to the stalls on the nearby Meath Street. My father couldn’t resist the bargain and decided to spoil his sons with a vast quantity of these chocolate delights. I had three brothers.
“Moongold!” the name beamed. I can still see the box! In fairness the box was quite deceptive, a cartoon rabbit (Bugs Bunny was very big at the time – great marketing) in an Astronaut outfit danced around a planet with eggs everywhere. He had landed on the moon apparently and found the promised land of Easter Eggs.
In reality these eggs were probably imported from Afghanistan and the best part of the production was the rabbit. When I say insipid, it does not do justice to the taste. The fact that I am still thinking about it after all these years is the best description, I can give to the metallic taste from the bowels of hell that was set upon us. The four of us got five eggs each. You can imagine the wall of depravity that stood on our sideboard longer than the wall in Berlin. My mother didn’t have to dust until July.
My only saving grace was the one egg my Aunty Bernie had gifted me. She had left me a Cadburys and I kept it there like a marooned shipwrecked sailor would leave his last can of spam. Knowing once it was gone, my life would be over. But like in Berlin, the wall finally crumbled and by the Summer, the rabbit had left for more adventures in the stratosphere and never appeared in our house again.
My Dad laughed about it for years after. “Will I get more Moongold?” he would ask to four traumatised children.
But in the spirit of Easter, I will forgive him. And this weekend, I will visit his grave, and no I won’t leave horrendous eggs to spite him, but rather say a prayer to say thanks. He meant well. I would give anything if it was he could raise from the dead and laugh about it one more time.
But rejoice! It is Easter. A time for renewal! So, sit back with your favourite Easter Egg this Easter tide or if you are not a chocolate lover, take in the beauty of the Daffodils or Tulips that tell us better days are ahead. And if you see a rabbit in this meadow in your vision, stay away. His space suit is nearby and he is armed and dangerous with Afghanistanian chocolate.