Life Branching Out
My mother saved egg shells when I was a boy, saving them for Easter. When she wanted to make French toast or a scramble, instead of cracking the egg in half, she’d make a small hole on the larger end and then take a pin and make a tiny hole on the other end. Then she’d blow the contents out of the bigger hole into a bowl before securing the shell with all of the others she’d collected.
At the beginning of Holy Week, she’d bring out the stash, and my sister and I would help her dye them different colors. Once they were dry, the real fun began as we took the batch out to a tree in the front yard. Our task was easier if the holiday fell early in the spring, but even if there were leaves on the branches, we went about the business of hanging dozens of shells all over the tree. When we were done, our tree had been transformed, much as Christmas lights light up a spruce, but the glow from our sumac was visible all day. It was never near as profuse as the one in the photograph above, but then again, how many eggs can a family eat in a year?
The Easter egg tree is a German custom, and I suppose my ancestors brought it over from the old country. My extended family put them up in Indiana, and we took the practice with us when we moved to Michigan. Our neighbors thought it quaint, and we enjoyed sharing it with them. For me it was as much a harbinger of spring as the first robin was.
In Christian tradition, the Easter egg symbolizes new life, the emergence of Jesus from the tomb after his resurrection. When she removed each egg from its shell, my mom was in a sense sharing a soulful dish for the family, and by not only saving the shell but also adding color to it, she created a message to be shared with all of those who passed our house. Each day we have an opportunity to recreate ourselves, to leave behind the shell of what we were before, but there is no reason that what once held us together has to be summarily discarded. Why can’t it live on it vibrant hues for others to see?
As another Easter nears, I think of our personal evolutions as trees, each iteration of who we are a different shell hung upon a branch. As I write this, Teresa is sitting across the room, doing some paperwork for her volunteering project. It warms me to think of her as an aspen, branches holding images from her whole life, even those that I only know from family photographs of her childhood. I see the darling girl egg, the spirited teenager egg, the aspiring young adult, the joyful bride, the emerging teacher, the loving mother and doting grandmother. And when the breeze of my imagination blows just right, I can hear the sounds of those shells as if they were bells, her voice ringing throughout the years, from the dulcet tones of a toddler to the golden timbre of a wise and experienced woman.
This summer she and I will return to East Lansing for my class reunion, and I can’t wait to walk through that forest of friends, bright egg shells shimmering in the memory of lives well-lived. Even more, I look forward the years ahead, and to adding more colors to my tree!