In the days following Easter Sunday, my siblings and I were not in a hurry to put away our Easter baskets. After school we didn’t immediately bother with chores or homework. The minute we entered the house and took off our jackets and boots, we ran for our baskets. We hunted through the fake grass hoping to find one last jelly bean buried among the strands of green plastic grass. Mom hated that stuff. It fell to the floor and landed on the rug. It was impossible to sweep. It clung to everything except her broom. It made a mess everywhere, but Mom’s children didn’t care.
Mom tolerated our hunt and that lousy grass until we reassured ourselves we had, indeed, consumed all the jelly beans. The black ones were my favorite. I loved licorice and would gladly trade two or three yellow beans for a single black one. The chocolate bunnies never lingered long in the baskets. If Mom didn’t see us, their ears disappeared before we were dressed in our new clothes and ready for church. It didn’t bother Dad what we ate before Mass. He always saw the funny side of things. Mom was our jailer, Dad our jester.
Eventually, the baskets were stored in a closet and that’s where they stayed until another Easter rolled around. The living room table had been cleared off. A clean cloth and a centerpiece consisting of a pretty container that held an enormous African violet were back in place atop a doily where they belonged. Everything returned to normal. That’s when Dad got out his stash of jelly beans and started having after-Easter fun.
Dad was not a jelly bean man. He ate chocolate sweets but turned up his nose at sugared beans. However, he had set some aside and enjoyed hiding them in various places once our baskets were empty. Sometimes my sister found a cluster of pink beans underneath her hanky. My brother’s metal dump truck was the perfect place for the purple and green ones he loved. I might find licorice flavored beans in a plastic sugar bowl or rolling around the oven of my play stove. Each find was a delight to our tastebuds. When we asked our parents where the beans had come from, both denied knowing anything about their existence. Our discoveries continued until the supply dwindled to only one bean each. That was when we knew there would be no more jelly beans until next year.
When our childhood was only a memory and Dad was celebrating Easter in heaven, Mom told us what we had always known. Because both had grown up poor, they always made our birthdays, Christmas and Easter extra special occasions. Neither spoke about their youth or teen years or even what it was like when things were rationed during World War II. They didn’t spoil us the way kids are spoiled today. They didn’t cave into frivolous desires, but they gave us everything we needed.
We weren’t a family that showed affection with hugs and declarations of unconditional love. That wasn’t the way it was done in those days, at least not in our house. Love was expressed in more practical ways that might seem odd today. Our parents provided a home where we were always welcome no matter what trouble we landed in. Random gifts were given throughout the year. We had rules that were lenient enough to obey without making us feel like prisoners. We knew the importance of being respectful, honorable, grateful for what we had and keeping our word when we gave it.
Decades later, long after plastic replaced woven Easter baskets and paper shreds became nests for candy, I remember Dad’s simple gesture for what it was. Love masquerading as hidden jellybeans. He never told us he loved us. He didn’t have to. He showed us without ever uttering the words.
To contact Sharon Kennedy, send her an email at sharonkennedy1947@gmail.com. Kennedy’s book, “The SideRoad Kids as Adults,” is available from her or Amazon.
This article originally appeared on The Petoskey News-Review: Parental love disguised as a jellybean | Opinion
Reporting by Sharon Kennedy, Community Columnist / The Petoskey News-Review
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