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patterns of ink

How fruitless to be ever thinking yet never embrace a thought... to have the power to believe and believe it's all for naught. I, too, have reckoned time and truth (content to wonder if not think) in metaphors and meaning and endless patterns of ink. Perhaps a few may find their way to the world where others live, sharing not just thoughts I've gathered but those I wish to give. Tom Kapanka

Sunday, March 31, 2013

My Mom Used to Sing This Song to us When We Were Kids...

I know it has nothing to do with the reasons we celebrate Easter, but my mother knew fun songs for all the holidays, and it was never an issue in our home to sing seasonal favorites that were incongruous with the sacred themes of Christmas and Easter. She had a good voice and loved singing at the piano (as I have written here before), but I suppose her truest gift was the abandon to break out in song a cappella whenever one came to mind. She used to sing this as we died hard-boiled eggs at the kitchen table.

The tradition of hiding Easter baskets in our house was equally welcome, a tradition that my siblings and I continued in our homes with our own children. It occurred to Julie and I yesterday, that it was the first Easter in 28 years that we did not make baskets. It's been an unusual year, but perhaps the tradition will pick up again.

A few years ago, I found this "Eggbert" record in an antique store--not the 45 RPM version in this video, but another version on a small-hole 78 RPM red record. Now all I need is a record player that plays 78 RPM. Haven't had a record player for years (and one with that speed for decades).

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