Easter memories

As we prepare for the first Easter without my brother, these photos bring memories. I remember the days when my cousins and I would line up in my great grandmother’s home to have our hair pressed and curled by our Aunt Betty Ann. I remember the patent white shoes and white stockings. I even remember wearing white gloves. I remember Mrs. Robinson knocking on the door of our home out in the middle of nowhere, asking for a few coins to buy the eggs that the mothers would dye and place in a corner lot for an Easter egg hunt. Now, cars race by that lot on which a house stands. They are headed to, among other things, Miami Dolphins and Miami Hurricanes games. White sand used to be on those huge fields near the subdivision to which my father moved us in the early 1970s. One can still glimpse signs of a once-close community amid all of the newcomers. One can especially have memories of a simpler time. My preacher-father in his robe and the palm plants by his pulpit also come to mind.