Cousin Bonnie has a basket in her hand and a big smile on her face. Her sister, Robbie, has what may be a potato sack. Daddy’s staring at Robbie, laughing at who knows what. Probably the sad state of her Easter egg gathering apparatus. I imagine it’s the late 50’s at Grandpa’s farm. I think I can see the tree line that runs along the train tracks. 

They look fairly well dressed up, but I don’t need a color photo to tell me none of them were wearing bright pastel colors. This isn’t that kind of Easter picture. This is a sharecropper’s Easter, filled with eggs from his own hens and ham from a pig he probably killed himself before the weather turned warm. 

Had they moved a little further down the fence, they could have captured the memory in the gate. The old farmhouse in the background would have made a perfect photobooth, had such a thing existed in that world. But this isn’t that kind of Easter picture. It’s a sharecropper’s Easter. 

When I was the age they are in this picture, my Easter’s were filled with bunny shaped coconut cakes and coloring eggs at the kitchen table. We’d celebrate all the March birthdays and drink enough sweet tea to float a ship. Or at least our eyeballs. I can still feel the warmth of that Tupperware pitcher all these years later. 

It’s funny the things we remember. 

Things have changed since that photo was taken. It’s the way of the world. Nothing ever stays the same. We can be frustrated by that, or we can accept it. Being frustrated won’t turn back the clock, so I try not to waste my time being frustrated. 

Thankfully there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, and that’s what we celebrate at Easter. The death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus. I’m glad for His sacrifice, and I’m grateful to be able to look at an old photo and see kids that grew up to be adults that held strong to that truth and passed it down to their own kids.