This year marks my 90th Easter on this earth. That’s a lot of memories of Easter egg hunts, church services and delicious family feasts to sort through. Not every year has been joyful, as the ups and downs of life caught up with me. But for the most part, Easter Sunday has been a time to step back, reflect on everything to be grateful for, and have a lot of fun. Here are two Easters in particular that come back to me every year in vivid detail… one for the red Ferrari(!)… and one for the freezing temperatures where my “great” idea to rough it almost froze my family!! Happy Easter all – celebrate and revel in your memories, old and new – and send me your stories!
AN EASTER IN LONELYVILLE
[I’m excited to say this is a new piece – a chapter from my forthcoming memoir about growing up in Lonelyville, Fire Island, full of more fun anecdotes and lots of history on my family’s beloved summer escape.]
When my brother Ken and I were little, growing up in London and then Long Island, Dad would wake up early on Easter morning and blast us out of bed with the glorious “Hallelujah” chorus blaring from the Victrola. We would race through the house discovering a dozen or more Easter baskets filled with toy bunnies and chicks, chocolate treats, jellybeans, Mother’s cookies, and gifts for the summer ahead, little pails and shovels. Our pack of Labradors eagerly joined in the search and received their share of the goodies.
Dorothy and I tried to duplicate that joy of Easter with Jenny and Graham. If the holiday coincided with spring school break, we would load our 26 ft. Cris-Craft the Cuttysark with the kids, sometimes their friends, and the cats and dogs, and head to our little cottage in Lonelyville, Fire Island. After Graham and Jenny were tucked in on Easter eve, I headed outside with a basket of eggs that we had dyed with them in the afternoon. I hid them under the deck or tucked them beneath the overturned rowboat or sunfish, behind posts, under the boardwalk, or in the dune grasses. The next day, the kids hunted as our dogs raced joyfully around the property.
In April 1978, the dates lined up. Easter came early and fell during Spring break. I took the week off, and we headed for La Casa del Pero (or “doghouse” – the name my grandmother named our cottage, because the men of the family were banished there so often for bad behavior). As we pulled up in the Cuttysark, we saw that the winter had taken its toll on the dock. Ice had lifted up the mooring posts. Several were missing completely or washed up on the shore. Those remaining tilted at different angles, like an old sailor’s teeth, some so loosened that they moved back and forth with the bay. The dock itself resembled a humpback whale. I would have to call the dredging company to get the dock and poles in shape for the season.
I maneuvered the Cuttysark close enough to the dock to allow the kids to scamper up and head for the house to fetch the wheelbarrow and wagon. I moved our boat to an adjoining dock and unloaded the dogs, cats, groceries, and baggage, and trekked to open the house and turn on the wall heaters. Typical Easter week temperatures were in the 40s and 50s, but it felt colder this year. We unpacked and started a roaring fire in the fireplace.
La Casa smelled like it always did, of hundreds of fires lighted in the fireplace, of mothballs, mildew, and sunscreen. That night, the temperature dropped sharply. It got so cold that we moved the three living room couches in front of the fireplace in U-like fashion. Mom and Jen took the bottom of the U, with Graham and me on either side. We wrapped ourselves in gray, wool WWI blankets that Gramp had used in his hospital – many from the shipwreck of the North Pacific off Fire Island in 1911 – another story for another day that I’ll tell in my forthcoming book. I stoked the fire and added wood several times during the night. The dogs and cats, two each, made cozy nests among us.
In the morning, Dorothy found the butter dish frozen solid and cracked in two. The radio reported that the temperature had fallen to 14 degrees during the night. The sun came out and the temperature rebounded quickly. We scattered to replenish the driftwood for the fireplace.
On cold days in Lonelyville, Jenny would read and Graham would fix things with me around the house. We played Yahtzee. Compared to my daily grind of commuting to and from work on the dreaded LIRR to New York City, a slog that started at 5:00 a.m. and ended at 8:00 p.m., Lonelyville always felt like freedom, regardless of the weather or the chores to be done.
On warmer days, Graham and Jenny ran loose and wild, like I had at their age. They played war games, carrying big (unloaded) rifles across the dunes and making elaborate booby traps for me. They dug giant holes in the sand, then covered them with old bamboo window shades from La Casa, placing seaweed on top. I would trot across the sand and suddenly—Boom!—into a hole I fell. At first, I reacted like an angry drill sergeant, but the traps were so cleverly constructed I couldn’t resist letting them off the hook. I loved watching them enjoy the island as much as I did.
I’m nearly 91 now, but I can still feel the cold bite of wind when I walked out of the cottage down towards the bay. I can hear the dogs excitedly barking behind me, and the joyful shouts of my children – their voices suddenly transported back a half a century in time. Getting old sucks, but having this lifetime of memories makes me so grateful. With a snap, we can time-travel back in our minds to any chapter of our lives… the magic of making it to 90. May you all experience it.
AN EASTER TO REMEMBER, 2012
4:45 AM, I was awake and stumbled out of bed. Dorothy and Marybeth, our cannon ball sized cat, were still sound asleep sharing their pillow. It was chilly as I padded down to the bathroom, wondering if we were really doing this again. I didn’t have to shave; it was still dark as pitch. Now, wide-awake, I showered and dressed warmly, turtleneck, warm- up pants and heavy sweater. 5:30 was our ETD!
I turned on the TV in my office and listened to some beautiful Easter music. Dorothy entered shortly with a piping hot cup of coffee and two hot cross buns. She was also bundled up for the sunrise service we were about to attend. We left on schedule and were among the first to arrive at the Connecticut River Museum at the foot of Main Street, directly on the river.
Willing hands were still unfolding chairs on the lawn. A large wooden cross stood on the boardwalk separating the lectern from the water. A portable keyboard was hooked up.
The service began. By now the chairs had all filled, and there were as many people standing in the back as seated. A black lab and an enthusiastic baby completed the congregation.
First light of dawn appeared and reflected off the river. A gentle breeze sprang up and made me glad for the extra layer of clothing. The wide, still expanse of the water was like an empty canvas. From somewhere back in time, images and memories poured forth and filled my mind. I’ll never understand how the more years go by, the sharper my recollections become… decades and distance collapsing, small details coming back to me as sharp and as vivid as though they happened yesterday. I thought of one Easter at sea, standing the 4 to 8am watch on the bridge of the USS Abbot (DD- 629), first light beginning to show on the horizon. I thought of Easter Sundays with my parents and brother, Ken, during World War II, listening to the latest developments on the radio and wishing for more chocolate rations. I though of later Easters with Dorothy and my children Graham and Jenny when they were small, packing the family in extra sweaters and having Easter egg hunts on a frigid Fire Island. The service ended, and I headed back home, more than a little morose. Why is it when you’re nearly eighty, the best memories seem to have been made years before?
Then the phone rang. Our grandson Graham was on the last lap of his major medical odyssey, which began in late December of last year. His operation for bone lengthening surgery was successful. His daily physical rehab in West Palm Beach was progressing well and on schedule. He and his mom, our wonderful daughter-in-law, were due to return home to Essex, in six weeks, or less. We couldn’t wait!
My daughter-in-law was on the phone, talking excitedly. Dr. Dror Paley, Graham’s surgeon, was being honored that day at the universally famous International Polo Club in Wellington, Florida. Of all his patients, he had invited Graham, with his mom, to accompany him. The story just kept getting better. As part of the festivities, they had asked Graham to participate in the coin flip prior to the polo match between Argentina’s Zacara and the UK team Orchard Hill!
But wait, she said, there’s more… In addition, Graham – as Dr. Paley’s star patient – was to arrive on the field for the coin toss in a bright red Ferrari convertible driven by Antrel Rolle, the all-everything, star New York Giant safety who had recently signed a $37 million dollar, 5-year contract.
This was a lot to absorb in one quick sequence of calls.
So much for being lost in the past. The phone rang again. It was Jenny.
“Dad, turn your computer on. Get Mom! Quick!”
I called to Dorothy. Jenny talked me through several steps, deciphering the mystery of live web-streaming. (Never got past computer 101!) It turns out; Graham’s polo match was being broadcast to the world!!! All of a sudden, to my amazement, horses appeared on my screen, followed shortly by a shiny-bright red sports-car. I came close to a coronary on the spot. A young woman proceeded to sing the National Anthem perfectly on pitch.
The camera quickly panned to the far end zone where the mounted players were assembled. There, right on the screen was the emcee, Dr. Paley, Antrel Rolle, and Graham in his wheelchair. Dr. Paley was introduced followed by Antrel and then Graham.
Dr. Paley introduced Graham as one of his patients and asked him several questions. Graham mentioned his brothers and sister stating loudly, “I’m Graham Rider from Essex, Connecticut!” The crowd of well-heeled onlookers roared.
Antrel flipped the coin, Graham close by watching intently. The game was on.
At half time, the large crowd was milling around on the field. I was staring absentmindedly at the screen and all of a sudden the Ferrari reappeared, this time with Graham in the front passenger seat with mom, Paulette, in the back. Graham was grinning and waving to the crowd.
What a thrill for this proud geezer! Another Easter to remember! Maybe that’s the trick to getting older. Instead of living in the past, you live through – and celebrate – the young around you… and take joy and solace in realizing they’re just starting to make memories of their own. One day, Graham will be a month away from eighty, looking out at the water on an Easter Sunday, remembering a red Ferrari and his grandparents, who couldn’t have been prouder.
HAPPY EASTER, EVERYONE!
Red Rider's Ramblings: Rants, reminiscences and repartee from a 91+ year-old rookie writer 
