My dad was raised Catholic, but by the time he hit college had given up church for Monty Python. Mom was brought up Presbyterian, but the moment she’d been told that children who hadn’t been converted to Christ were going to hell, she knew something was deeply wrong about that whole situation. Because what about those kids in tribal Tanzania who hadn’t even heard of Jesus, hadn’t even been given a chance to decide? She figured the system was flawed at that point, or that she was being lied to, and didn’t care to invest herself further than learning the pretty four-part-harmony hymnals that kept her clinging to the choir. She was only in it for the singing.
Having parents who kept their toe in for the convenience of celebrating Easter and Christmas with the extended family, I recall only two instances of attending church as a child. The first was in Conrad, Iowa, with my great grandmother Maye.
Grandma Maye, a Catholic, was still alive when I was smallish but had passed on by the time I hit my tweens, bequeathing my parents the mammoth lime-green sedan we depended on for a time though were mortified to be seen in. It was anybody’s guess if the tank that we dubbed “The Football Field” was going to start in the morning.
There was something else I’d rather she’d left for me. But it’s bad form to ask anything of a dying woman, especially one you were afraid of your whole life. That lady scared the crap out of us all. Even her cat was terrifying. Zipper, a grey-and-white fat thing with mean yellow eyes, waited under the dinner table during family meals and would swipe at our legs should we accidentally nudge him while passing the Jell-O salad. Grandma Maye nipped at our heels, too, with her casual criticisms. “That’s the ugliest dress I ever saw,” she told my own mother once, “never wear it again!” But bare feet seemed to be my family’s biggest offense. “Put your shoes and stockings on!” she’d snap at any child who dared to peel his off in her presence.
My dad recalls a childhood wherein his Grandma Maye, who ran the kitchen of a men’s fraternity at Iowa State University, would scrimp and save her money so that every Christmas his family living room was filled, end to end, with presents. Hardly anywhere left to walk. Christmas was a big deal for Maye.
I never really got to experience her that way—only the Maye who snapped at us. Only the Maye who made us go to church once. Only the Maye who had things that I wanted: the giant glass jar of old-fashioned candy she kept in her Conrad home required express permission to partake of. Upon a rare Easter visit, we were all secretly waiting for some other kid to break the ice. Asking if we could “also” have a piece wasn’t as risky as being the first. Sadly, my cousins were even shyer than I was, so the candy jar just sat there, taunting us.
Across the entryway, high on a ledge adorned with various decorative knickknacks—a crystal bowl, a pair of crocheted doilies—sat Cornelia Blossom. With a halo of blond curls, chubby cheeks, and a ruffly dress, she was a doll made for adoring. And I felt it a personal affront and a grave injustice that, in a 1984 world where authentic Cabbage Patch Kid dolls were a rare, coveted commodity, my Grandma Maye had one, propped on her mantle for all to see but for none to play with.
In my hometown, which was by then Fairfield, just about the time I realized I wanted a Cabbage Patch doll, the only ones you could get your hands on were the knockoffs. Not only did the fakes not come in their own precious boxes, nestled in faux cabbage leaves and accompanied by birth certificates bestowing adorable names like “Penelope Adelaide” or “Xavier Philippe,” these second-rate dolls possessed a peculiar feature that rendered them too ugly to love. I don’t know who gave a thumbs up on that particular factory mold, but the dolls were designed with egregiously gross noses. Flat, elongated nostrils, the telltale sign of an imposter that was not from the Patch, extended down at an unnatural angle and ruined a doll that would otherwise have been passably cute.
In a moment of weakness and desperation, followed by instant buyer’s remorse, I had purchased my own fakey from a local hair salon, one of three dolls they had left hanging from a section of pegboard behind the salon chairs. I still don’t know why I had spent my allowance money on a fat, nasty doll I was embarrassed to be seen with.
While Jennie Rothenberg, Anne Smith, and even Jonathan Freeman showed up to school with their Cabbage Patch cuties in arms—Anne wheeled hers around in a stroller at recess, no less—my unsightly doll with a bad fro and an alien nose stayed at home and was soon dubbed by my brothers “the Princess of Farts.” I surrendered to their game of throw and catch, taking turns tossing the doll in an arc across the room, a projectile of her own imaginary butt gas. Because everyone knows if you make fart-noise sound effects for your own dolls, even your brothers will accept you for a few hours.
I had Princess Farticus in blue polyester, and Grandma Maye had Cornelia Blossom, a real Cabbage Patch Kid, with a pink and white gingham dress, honey-kissed curls, and a freckled, li’l button of a nose. The kind of nose you could kiss. The kind of doll who was too pretty, too precious, to ever make fart noises.
My eyes lingered longingly on Cornelia Blossom, up there on Maye’s mantle, as I filed out her door with my family that Easter morning to meet visiting aunts, uncles, and cousins who’d converged in Conrad to celebrate the holiday at Grandma’s church. Buds were popping; daffodils were displaying their little frills; the sun was beaming, proud; and in return for sitting through service, we had been promised an egg hunt in the churchyard grass with local children who were also being lured to service that day in their cleanest, cutest outfits.
We kids filed into the pews and sat in clumps with our respective families, feet dangling down, not touching the floor. Dad’s hand went firmly to my knee for a moment, his not-so-subtle way of telling me to stop swinging my legs. I eyed the curious row of identical red books tucked into the long built-in shelf at my knees. I deigned to leaf through one but put it back when I discovered there were no pictures. I’ve never been much of a reader.
Partway through the service, the minister paused for a special invitation, encouraging all the children to come and join him on the stage. Slightly bewildered, I looked around for data—were my cousins partaking? Yes, even the shyest were sliding out of their seats as our collective parents prodded us on.
“Oh yes, go ahead, the minister is going to read you a special story,” they said. ’Twas the season for baby lambs and baby chicks and baby bunnies. What parent or grandparent wouldn’t love to see a herd of freshly bathed, tow-headed miniature humans sitting together attentively in their precious pastel outfits for a story about eggs and holy ghosts?
As we neared the pulpit, a woman about my mother’s age welcomed us in whispers and, with waving hands, directed us into rows on the steps of the chancel. I was a rule follower and fancied myself a lamb, so I did as I was told, wedging myself between two well-dressed kids I didn’t know in the front row. Is this a standing-up story? I wondered, and Hey, why are my siblings peeling off and returning to their seats? Their loss. I spotted cousins Matt and April a row back, sticking it out. They went to church a lot. I figured they knew what they were doing.
Mrs. Whatzit directed us all to swivel around and face the congregation and, once she was satisfied that she had our full attention, raised her hands in the air. Organ music filled the room out of nowhere. Her eyes widened, brightening behind her glasses, and her mouth began to anticipate a word.
The air stood still. My stomach dropped into my saddle shoes.
There would be no story. This was a friggin’ performance. And I was about to be a star performer.
Mrs. Whatzit began, and the entire choir of kids launched into song:
Do the Easter Bunny bop, bop, bop!
It truly didn’t occur to me to do anything but pretend I belonged and fake my way through a song—with choreography—I’d never rehearsed, let alone heard before. It was a fight-or-flight crash course in lip reading and instant mimicry. And by God and Jesus, I should have been given an award.
My mouth rounded into the vowel sounds Mrs. Whatzit was blasting at us in a stage whisper. My hands, inhabited by the Holy Spirit, rose up and curled into bunny paws, and I bopped my head in rhythm, just a breath behind the other kids.
Do the Easter Bunny bop, bop, bop!
Step left then right then hop, hop, hop!
I stepped right then left, but hey, at least I was stepping.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw cousins Matt and April break from the pack and slink back to their seats, the weasels. They’d gotten wise. But I didn’t have time to think about it; I had to keep up with the next bit of choreography—everybody’s fingers were falling forward now as they sang:
Big bunny ears go flop, flip, flop!
Mrs. Whatzit, who was doing a fabulous job leading the kid choir through the motions, was giving me some extra eye contact, very appreciated, cuing me with eyebrows raised so high I thought they would come off her face. I concentrated on her so hard my irises hurt.
The only rabbit of its kind
Brings Easter eggs at Easter time!
How many eggs can you find?
What I wouldn’t know, couldn’t know until much later because I was laser focused on not messing up the show—compelled to sell it—was that my family and extended family members were practically rolling in the isles.
And no, although they hadn’t sent me up there as a joke—they earnestly thought it was story time—not one of them had stood up to rescue me. I was a baby deer in the headlights. A wolf pup in sheep’s clothing. An imposter in the cabbage patch too paralyzed by the pressure of the public eye to do anything but just. Keep. Singing.
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Meredith Siemsen is the host of the Thirsty Word creative writers’ reading series, taking place every third Thursday at Cafe Paradiso in Fairfield.
