Easter in the Mountains

When I was growing up in the mountains of western North Carolina, Easter came along with a promise that things were about to feel a little brighter, if only for a while. We didn’t have much in those days, and everybody knew it, but somehow Easter had a way of making you forget all that. For one Sunday out of the year, we felt like the richest people in all of Appalachia.

One of the things we children looked forward to most was the prize egg. It was a golden egg, nothing fancy to look at, but inside was 25 cents. Now that may not sound like much to folks today, but back then it might as well have been a pocket full of treasure. Whoever found that egg walked a little taller the rest of the day, and you can be sure the rest of us were just a little bit jealous.

We always got new clothes for Easter, and that alone could change how you saw yourself. It didn’t matter that the rest of the year we made do with what we had. On Easter Sunday, we stepped out in something new, and it felt like we had been given a fresh start right along with the season.

In the days leading up to it, my granny, my mama, and all my aunts would be busy from sunup to sundown in the kitchen. There would be pots simmering and ovens going, and the whole house would be filled with smells that seemed to wrap themselves around you. There was more food than we were used to seeing at one time, and it felt like a true feast. For that one day, the table was full, and so were our hearts.

There was a passel of us cousins, and come Easter morning, my uncles would head out early to hide eggs all around my granny’s big yard. They took their time with it too, tucking them into places that made you work a little to find them. When the time came, we would scatter in every direction, calling out and laughing, each one of us hoping we would be the one to come up with that golden egg.

But before any of that could happen, we had a tradition that came first. We would rise while it was still dark and make our way to the cemetery, walking up the mountain to where our people were laid to rest. There was an Easter sunrise service held there every year. I can still remember how the darkness settled in around us as we walked, and how the gravel sounded under our feet. It might have been a little frightening to a child, but there was a peace in it too, like you were part of something older than yourself.

By the time the service ended and we started back down, the sun would be coming up over those blue mountains. The light would stretch across the hills and hollers, and for a moment everything seemed new again. It is a sight that stays with you, no matter how many years pass.

Easter in those mountains was not just a day on the calendar. It was a gathering of neighbors, friends, and family. People came together in a way that made you feel like you belonged to something bigger. Even in hard times, there was a kindness and a closeness that carried you through.

I find myself thinking on those days more often now the older I get. There are many who shared those mornings with me who have since passed on, and I surely do miss them. My brothers and sisters have families of their own these days, and like most things, traditions have a way of changing with time.

Now we gather at a friend’s place by the lake, and there are near about 60 folks who come together. There is still plenty of food, and still plenty of laughter, and that same feeling of being surrounded by people who matter most. It isn’t quite the same as it was back then, but it is good in its own way, and it reminds me that even though times change, the heart of it all remains.

So to those who mark Easter as a sacred day, I hope it brings you peace and renewal. And to those who simply take it as a time to be with the ones they love, I hope it brings you that same comfort.

And from my heart to yours, I wish you a happy Easter.

-Tim