Growing up in Alabama, Easter was a major celebration in our family, capped off with an annual event which triggered the closest thing to a child riot: the egg hunt. It was a thrill to find an egg at all. But nestled somewhere in our grandparents’ massive backyard were two special prizes: the Golden Egg and the Silver Egg.
Belhaven azaleas, Polaroid SX-70 (2021)
In my memory the Silver Egg was a thicker grade than the other bright-pastel eggs, which opened at a seam in the middle, and it was a little larger; still plastic, but with a dull shine. It was heavier, too, because of the two quarters jingling within.
The Golden Egg shone. It wasn’t metal, but reflected like it, and was the largest of the eggs. There was no jangle when you picked up the Golden Egg, if you were ever lucky enough to do so; inside was no mere change, but a carefully folded dollar bill.
Cabazon Dinosaur, decorated for Easter, Polaroid 600 (2021)
This is when my Nana still had her greenhouse tucked behind my Pop’s workshop and garage, when we still had Fourth of July around the white-painted cinderblock pit just over the tiny creek, when my front teeth still bucked out like a bunny rabbit. This is when my hair was very red. This is when comic books cost sixty cents, right when Marvel made the jump to 75¢ with Secret Wars. It was, you understand, the very beginning of the world.
Recreation of Grave with egg carton cross, Hale County 1975, by Wm. Christenberry, with fiber egg carton, plastic tea roses, and bent clotheshanger, Greenwood Cemetery, Jackson, Mississippi, Polaroid SX-70 (2021)
About a block from my house is a very beautiful Episcopal Church. After I drank my coffee this morning and filled up the bird bath I took a shower and combed my hair and pulled my seersucker coat from the back of the closet. I don’t wear the whole suit because I look like a marshmallow or someone playacting a Southern lawyer. I tried to think about something I might want to bake later on, maybe a chocolate cake. I buffed my shoes a little bit and then walked down the street while listening to the cardinals and blue jays chatter and cheep.
I grew up Baptist and that is just fine but when I began to go to other churches I realized there was so much mystery in the Christian faith which I hadn’t experienced. Not that it wasn’t present, I suppose; but ritual was absent, and it is in the ritual that there is great beauty and connection. One can say a phrase and think, this same phrase has been said now for hundreds of years.
Yazoo City, Polaroid 600 (2022)
There was this lovely line in the program for the Easter service about communion. All are welcome to take communion, it emphasized. All may, some will, none must.
All may, I thought to myself, dreaming of finding the Golden Egg once again, hearing the voices of my cousins hollering as we run through the yard. All may.
And then I kneel, close my eyes, and think of home, think of a place now very far away.
“ALL MAY” is a chapter of GORJUS, a dispatch devoted to art and life in the South, held fast with instant film. If you liked what you saw and read, if you maybe felt a twang in your belly while you looked it over, then this is for you, and I reckon we would be friends. Consider sending this letter to a pal who is like us. I’m gorjusjxn on Instagram, and you can see an archive of Polaroids at McCartyPolaroids.
forever and ever, amen. thanks for this peace. love the recreation.