The Easter Photographs

I look at the photos, studying the details in each one. Each of the images takes me back in time to the annual Easter gatherings at my maternal grandmother’s home near the Ohoopee River in Southeast Georgia. These snapshots have frozen moments of days when dogwoods and azaleas danced in full bloom near a dirt road named for my grandfather, Hub Jarriel. These prized photos have preserved memories of the large farm table in Grandmother’s kitchen, groaning under the weight of dozens of covered dishes and platters — potato salad, deviled eggs, fried chicken, and baked beans (the kind seasoned with mustard, brown sugar, ground beef and broiled strips of bacon on top). The desserts always occupied the top of a chest freezer on the porch. It, too, was piled high with everything from buttery pound cakes to multi-layered chocolate masterpieces to “that green congealed stuff with the pineapple and pecans in it.” My Grandmother Jarriel sat in her spot — the chair near the door of the kitchen — her body draped in an old bib apron and her face illuminated with the satisfaction of seeing her growing family gathered together under one roof. We would squeeze into that tiny farmhouse, and one of my uncles would say the blessing as all of us bowed our heads and closed our eyes — taking a moment to be silent, be present and be grateful for food and family. This was important to all of us. Still is.

Family was everything to Grandmother Jarriel.

She had given birth to nine children, and all of her children had raised children, so for me, there was a passel of aunts, uncles and cousins at these big Easter gatherings. I loved to see my aunts’ and uncles’ faces and listen to their stories. I loved to run wild as an animal with my cousins.

Some of the photographs reveal a timeless ritual that followed the feast — the Jarriel Family Easter Egg Hunt. Uncle Wallace’s truck, loaded with excited children — some dangling their legs over the tailgate — features prominently in my memories, as do the dozens of meticulously dyed eggs in rainbow hues. We hunted them together beneath nearby towering pines, adults guiding little ones toward eggs cradled in nests of straw while teenagers reached for those hidden high in the forks of trees. When I close my eyes, I can almost hear the laughter echoing through the woods as family members of all ages gathered in the dappled shade to enjoy their discoveries. There was just something so simple and divine about eating boiled eggs sprinkled with generous amounts of salt and pepper in the wildness of South Georgia, chasing each bite with a sip of cold Coca-Cola.

These were the golden moments of my youth.

Perhaps most precious are the photographs showing Grandmother Jarriel, draped in pink, observing it all — her queen-like presence radiating joy as she watched her family bond through this most cherished tradition. The images capture her love — not just in her face, but reflected in the faces of all who attended those grand affairs. These photographs, along with some old VHS footage I had digitized last year, serve as portals to a time when loved ones now lost were still present, still laughing, still hiding and hunting eggs amid the pines with us. They have preserved those magical Easter gatherings for me.

I find myself wishing for an impossible gift — to travel back in time and revisit one of those Easter gatherings. I’d hug each person with the knowledge that our time together isn’t infinite after all. I’d take a seat continued from page

beside my father, hold my aunts’ hands just a moment longer, memorize my uncles’ hearty laughs, and ruffle my cousins’ hair as they raced past me clutching the handles of their Easter baskets. Most of all, I’d look at my grandmother — really look at her — storing away the details time has blurred: the way sunlight caught the silvery white of her hair; how her hands, veined and gentle, peeled a hard-boiled egg; and the quiet pride as she watched her family gather.

But I can’t travel back. But if I try, I can feel my grandmother’s presence inside me. I can feel the presence of everyone I’ve lost over time, bridging my past to my present — a love that transcends time and dimension. And I hope that you can feel it, too. Happy Easter!

Ona with Robert and Archie.

Ona and Joyce at Egg Hunt.

Grandmother Jarriel “Ona” in her pink hat.